


A Want To Be Wanted

by ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon



Series: A Want To Be Wanted [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action, Adventure, Ambassador Hunk FTW, Anger, Angst, Attempted Rape, BAMF Lance, BAMF Valion, Background Relationships, Battle, Betrayal, Bottom Lance, Brother Lance, But Ignores His Emotions, Character Death, Cliffhanger, Comfort, Confident Lance, Dancing, Dark, Drinking, Duelling, Eldance, Eldance Fluff, Eldar and Lance Moments, Eldar is also a Cinnamon Roll, Even More OCs - Freeform, Everyone Misses Lance, Evil Keith, Family, Feast, Feelings, Fighting, First Kiss, Fluff, Galra Invasion, Gambling, Gen, Get Ready For The Tissues, Glossary Is The Next Work, Hallucinations, He Kicks Himself Off The Team, Here Comes Eldar, Hottie Alert, Humour, Hunk is a cinnamon roll, Hurt, Hurt Paladins, I Don’t Like Calling Them Minor Characters, Insecure Lance, I’m sorry, Keith Ignores His Feelings, Keith Is A Volcano And He’s About To Erupt, Keith Mourning Lance, Keith and Lance fighting, Keith angst, Kidnapped, Kidnapped Lance, Kind Of Background Klance Too, Lance And Eldar Moments, Lance Bonding With The Crew, Lance Finds New Love, Lance Hates Himself So Much, Lance Is Allowed To Heal, Lance Is No Longer A Paladin, Lance Is Saved, Lance Reunites With Voltron, Lance Runs Away, Lance Starts To Hate Himself, Lance Vs Valion, Lance likes Keith, Lance prepares for battle, Lance reunites with Solnha, Langst, Love, M/M, Mental Torture, Minor Character Death, Miscommunication, Missing Lance, Missing the team, More Cliff-hangers, More Eldance Fluff, More angst, Mourning, Mutual Pining, My Baby Gets A Break, Neutral Pronouns For Pidge/Katie Holt, OCs - Freeform, PTSD, Physical Torture, Platonic Paladin Love, Platonic Pidge And Allura, Prisoners, Rest In Peace My Children, Reunion, Revenge, Romance, Sad, Sadness, Self-Acceptance, Self-Harm, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, So Much Langst!, So much anger, Solnha Vs Galra, Space Battle, Space Funerals, Space Pirates, Space Pirates being Space Pirates, Space family, Such Gap Moe, Suicidal Thoughts, Surprise Party, Sweet Vengeance, Team Appreciation, Team Reunion, Tension In The Team, That’s Not Good For Lance, They Are All Hurting, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Torture, Twisted, Unhealthy Mourning, War, We Crashed The Angst Train And Everyone Is On Fire, Who Can Tear You Apart, Who wants angst?, a lot of OCs - Freeform, after the war, and regrets it, blade of marmora, choo choo motherfuckers, everyone loves lance, heartmates, here comes the angst train, in-fighting, kangst, keith is hurting, keith likes lance, like seriously slow burn, mental health, more feelings, my poor baby, not actually rape, physically, sword fights, team fighting, they are all important, we all knew it was coming, who will win?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:29:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 50
Words: 358,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon/pseuds/ididntdoit_blameitonthedragon
Summary: Following a nearly fatal rescue mission, Lance can’t seem to shake the fear that he’s not as important as he thought he was. He wants to belong on the team, he wants them to trust him, but one thing happens after another and Lance isn’t sure anymore. Things are harder still, when the voice in his head comes to life.With repeated attacks from Space Pirates, family fights and the ever-growing fear that Lance isn’t good enough, and he’s barely keeping his head above the water.Lance doesn’t want this.This wasn’t the adventure he wanted in Space.  And when Lance overhears the crew talking about him… Well, the things they say drive him away. He doesn’t even say goodbye before he leaves.Lance finds a new family among the stars, where he’s free to be himself. He’s happy, he’s accepted, he’swanted.But Voltron didn’t mean to push Lance away. He is their brother, they love him, they miss him and they worry for him, somewhere out in space. Is he alone? Is he still fighting? Is he even alive?They don’t know and they can’t know until they find his trail, and follow it to the end?But is the Lance that left the same one they’ll find…?





	1. A Want To Be Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> So after that horribly, too long break since April (I am so, SO sorry), I am back with a reviewed Fanfiction and a clearer understanding of the story. Sorry for the re-read, but I definitely prefer this version than the original, not that it’s been scrubbed clean and pumped with caffeine and plenty of sugar. With fixed mistake, better grammar and less plot holes, I’m falling back in love with my own literature (I’m allowed to okay, I worked bloody hard on this thing) I hope you guys love this too. Much love!! And enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voltron is called to rescue a Cargo Ship under fire from Space Pirates; a simple mission that should be easy enough. On board complications occupy the team while Lance runs into trouble of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little note before we get started. This is set two years into space, but before the finale of Season Two.

**System:** Nairn  
**Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

“Lay off Mullet,” Lance drawled, his voice prickly, not the entire fault due to the Comms. “Just be thankful I didn’t shoot, if not you would’ve had a face full of laser. Actually, _maybe I should have._ Then at least I’d been able to fix that atrocious mullet.”  
“Just try it Lance,” Keith shot back, quick to keep the argument alive as they shot through the stars; both of their Lions just a few metres apart where they dared the other just to bump them, just a little, and reignite the argument they’d been dancing around all morning. 

It wasn’t uncommon for Keith and Lance to be found arguing, no matter where they were, nor the time of day. Sometimes the exchanges remained as quips that ended just as quickly as they began. Other times, with idle insults continuously thrown in _“friendly-fire”_ fashion with no amount of animosity to be found, much like banter between two good friends, their argument simply started for change of pace. 

The intensity of their confrontations was lukewarm at best.  
This argument, however, was _scalding._

Stemmed from an incident in the Training Room, involving both the Red and Blue Paladins, Keith and Lance continued their bickering as the Lions raced the expanse of Space with little mind to their current situation other than _he’s pissing me off and I’m going to mouth off at him._  
They’d been at ends that morning anyway. Keith: grumpy from a late night of training – he was doing extra in his allocated _“Free Time”_ so no one could tell him not to. Lance, on the other hand, was as happy as Cinderella, like every damned morning.  
And, for some unknown reason, it had rubbed Keith up the wrong way. 

Training had been completed quicker than usual, with Keith’s flare of annoyance taken out on more than his fair share of Gladiators; amid the curses he threw at Lance. Lance was always quick to supply his own.  
And just when everyone thought the pair had vented enough, a bunt from a Gladiator spear took Keith’s feet out from under him and, resulting on him crashing to the ground. Painfully.  
Pidge had the stray bot on the floor in two ticks flat, their bayard electrifying the joint between chest and neck.  
But the damage was already done.

 _“Oi, ass-clown. What the Quiznak was that about?”_  
Keith had rounded on Lance, Bayard still in classic-sword style. Lance had never thought Keith would hurt him, but for half a second, his fingers turned to ice at the unfound thought, bringing up his own blaster mark as defence between himself and the Red.  
Lance had been at the wrong end of countless _‘bad-morning-Keith spats’_ but this anger that came at him like sparks held a different tension. 

_“What was what,”_ was all he thought to reply with, his wit and charm stuffed somewhere with his ‘Happy-Lance-Guise’ temporarily stowed for training and concentrating purposes. An inner voice was telling him to tread lightly, but the confrontation was sudden, and Lance was unprepared; mind still wired in fight-mode.  
_“You left me open. That training-bot was yours to take out.”_ Keith’s glare sparked with that unusual anger, tongue quick at throwing personal jabs, not just back hand comments. _“Were you too busy checking your hair was perfect or what?”_

 _“Hey that’s unfair,”_ Hunk said, moving between them. Ever the team mom, there to dispel any fight before things became too harsh. He was the yellow Paladin for a reason. 

Keith just stepped around his obstacle. 

_“No, it’s not. Lance has hardly been hitting any this morning, leaving the rest of us to pick up the slack. He needs to get his act together.”_  
The Blue Paladin took three steps closer, about to tell him that _‘I couldn’t take them out, because some mullet-brained moron was getting there first,’_ but the Castle’s interior communication channel sounded first. _“Paladins, we have another distress beacon concerning the raiders,”_ Allura called, ending the training session early.  
Under Shiro’s guidance they had regrouped on the Bridge, Coran punched in the coordinates for the distress beacon and set off for its source.

The argument had been put on hold, but now with nothing else to distract them, Keith had dredged it up from whatever pit Lance had buried in it, and now they were continuing to have a go at one another like cats and dogs. 

“Trust me. If I was shooting at you, I would’ve got a head shot.”  
Keith scoffed through the Comms. “I _don’t_ trust you Lance. And if you had, I would’ve just taken your head clean off your shoulders. It wouldn’t have been hard.” He says it like a challenge, baiting Lance to keep fighting. 

The Blue is caught up from the sting of recalling words.  
_‘I don’t trust you.’_  
Lance ignored the prickling in his fingers, mind desperate for a retort that would knock Keith off his high-horse, but Shiro spoke first, cutting their argument short. “Stow it the pair of you,” he said, voice taking the classic ‘Dad Tone’ adopted whenever he wanted to scold a certain someone because he believes him not to be listening. 

“We’re approaching the Ship now, so get in position.”  
“Aye aye _Captain,”_ Lance snubbed, redirecting his irritation from a certain wannabe-samurai to his knight in shining armour. He shoved the controls harder than needed, sending Blue forward with a burst of speed.  
He hadn’t meant to, but she listened to him anyway. 

It was always in Blue that he didn’t have to put up his physical front. He could take off his mask and be himself around her. 

Lance hadn’t let his walls down around her deliberately; not wanting to shame her for having a pathetic pilot for a Paladin.  
But he had lowered his guard regardless, done simply from sheer exhaustion, back after the castle was attacked, the first night in his room after his near-death experience with the exploding _not-_ Rover. Coupled with the home sickness, the severity of his commitment as a Paladin and the loneliness he felt so far away from home; Lance cried like a dam broke.  
Quietly. He hadn’t wanted anyone to hear him, wasn’t sure if they could through the walls, but it would save him looking like a baby when he was meant to be a _“Defender Of The Universe.”_

Someone had heard him though.  
Someone bordering on sleep-stasis had felt the dark suffocating emotions and called out to him. 

_“Little Cub.”_

She had called out to him. She used his words, not just thoughts and ideas filling his mind, but words to call him softly, join him in his head-space and curl up around the small child that cried in the dark. 

And with her, Lance had found peace. She brought him comfort and warmth, reminding him of a love that he had felt when wrapped in his mother’s arms.  
The comfort prickled his heart, but although painful, _it was a good pain._

[My Little Cub is sad] she said in his mind: neither a statement nor question. Just an observation.  
Lance debated talking about it, but with their current heading, decided right now wasn’t a good time for a heart to heart. He dismissed her concern with wave of warmth, washing away his own irritation alongside it.  
_No Blue. It is just the usual arguing with Keith, is all. There’s nothing to worry about._  
She purred for him, leaning right to turn the unexpected speed-burst into a corkscrew manoeuvre, and Lance whooped in excitement as his stomach flipped.  
_Blue always knew how to cheer him up._

“Lance, this is no time for games,” Shiro reminded him, words edged with that all-too-familiar sharpness.  
Their Voltron Leader was sharing the Yellow cockpit with Hunk, who should’ve been taking point, as per the plan, as the three Lions closed in on their target: Space Pirates, attacking an innocent Cargo Ship.  
Pidge, settled comfortably in the cockpit of Red, began their usual spiel of technical wizardry as Keith piloted them closer. The Green Paladin was hacking into their system, and couldn’t really do that whilst piloting a Lion too. So, cabin buddies with Keith it was. 

“The Pirates have got some kind of jamming signal on board. Shiro, if you guys land, it will knock out our Comms and we won’t be able to talk to one another.”  
“Then how about you fix it before they land,” Keith said before anyone offered a change of tactic. Pidge grumbled something unintelligible, most likely giving Keith their perfected dark glare. He didn’t realise what had annoyed them, instead assuming the task too difficult. “What? You can’t fix it?”  
“Oh, I can fix it,” Pidge growled, bristled from Keith questioning their genius. “I just hate it when people start assuming I can do things. Would be nice if you stop taking me for granted.” 

Lance listened to the pair’s quick concession of low-animosity vocal spars, trying to push the noise to the back of his head before his irritation resurfaced.  
He was the furthest in front, closest to the raiding ships.  
And the first to fire at them. 

“Cue the music guys, I’m going in.”  
There was a chorus of _“no’s”_ from the other Paladins, before a deafening screeching took their place. “Ow! _What the hell is that?”_ But the Comms only echoed back the screeching; varying in levels of chatter. It was worse than white noise, flecked with brief moments of silence. 

_The jamming signal, of course._

“Blue, turn it off!” Lance yelled, trying to hear himself more than try to be heard by his Lion. He scrunched his face up, as if that would help drown out the noise, hands flying from the controls on instinct to clamp over his ears, only to be barred by his helmet. 

_[My Cub, danger!]_  
He opened an eye in time to see the Pirate’s artillery machinery lining Blue up in their sights, scrambling quickly to grab at the controls. Half his attention remained focused on manoeuvring Blue into evasive action. The rest was taken by the noise that was bleeding his ears. 

Lance and Blue were already between two of the ships; contrastingly different in their shapes and painted colour.  
One was bathed in shades of burnt purple, lighter panels of worn metal spiking out in the front, high peaked fenders on the back engines. It resembled one of Lance’s old toys; the bottom half of a robot whose arms and head had been ripped off when he and Luis fought over it.  
The other was larger; longer and flatter as it hung in the space above the cargo ship, its bronze hull splashed in colours of blood, white teeth painted in jagged lines between the flat pincers of its figure head.  
The ships were a part of a small fleet of _“Pirate”_ ships targeting Cargo and Freight ships in the outer regions of the _Nairn_ System. Currently, they were the Paladin’s main concern, aside from the Galra threat. Shiro had made it clear that Voltron were to protect the people, not just from Galra but _all_ threats. Pirates included. 

Using both ships as cover and a trap all at once, Lance slammed on the reverse thrusts, his seat harness pulling tight as Blue stopped dead, tail swishing as she wanted to attack herself. _Not yet Blue, we’ve got to wait,_ he told her, grinning at Shark-Tooth and Headless, daring them to play ball. 

_One tick._

Using the brief respite of cease-fire, Lance’s fingers drummed the keypad in rushed rhythm, cutting the bleeding noise of the jamming signal into radio silence. Comms down wasn’t a good battle strategy, but Lance had no other choice if he wanted to keep his ability of hearing. 

_Two ticks._

Lights glowed at the bow of each ship, the barrels of barrage weapons aimed at his Lioness. 

_Three ticks._

“Anchors away Blue!” Controls forward, pedals to the floor, Blue shot forward on command, just as two rail guns fired simultaneously. Their lasers, instead of finding purchase in Blue’s body, hit the target of opposite pirate ship instead, scorch marks adding to the detail of both. 

“Woo, nice one,” Lance yelled, barrel rolling down beside _Spiky Mc Headless_ toward its underbelly, hiding himself in the ship’s blind spot. The Pirates weren’t playing around however, their guns once more lining up for the Cargo Ship, whose engines were dead; the ship and its crew sitting ducks.

“Woah, not on my watch!” Lance growled, Blue’s tail-gun whipping around to shoot a decorative line of scorch marks into the ship’s underbelly, aiming for the engines, but the shields were up. “Damn it. Quick Blue! We've got to get in front and draw their fire away.”  
They both shot forward together, angle of the spin about to bring them up once again in between gun and cargo ship, but suddenly there was Red. 

Sword in mouth, claws out to balance her incoming spin, she sliced across the barrel of the nearest rail gun before it could open fire. Yellow, charging in from behind, slammed into the side of _Shark-Tooth’s_ painted grin, knocking the ship off course, snapping the connecting harpoons from the vessel it preyed upon.  
The cargo ship was released but made no effort to escape. 

“They’re getting away,” Lance yelled, watching both Pirate Ships charge up their engines for a hasty retreat. 

_No, not this time,_ Lance thought angrily, determined not to let them get away. They had attacked far too many people, and this was the closest they had ever been to a raid. Usually they’d swing in afterwards, left simply to pick up the crew and ferry them to the nearest trader hub so they could procure a ship ride home.  
This time though, they could actually fight the pirates, take out the ships and save a lot more aliens in the future. 

The one that was all spikes, no head, forced its engines into frenzy, just as Blue’s ice blast aimed for its bridge. Leaving _Shark-Tooth_ to Hunk and Keith, Lance gave chase, sending a barrage of shots towards the purple ship’s engine. One sputtered and stopped, but the other six still worked, taking it to safety.  
Lance steered himself to a vantage point again, dodging the rail guns, when suddenly Red was in front of him, faces close together. “What the— _Keith get out the way!”_  
But Comms were down and Keith couldn’t hear him yelling.  
Lance fingered the buttons until the familiarly irritating noise of Keith’s voice met his ears. More specifically, his left: his right remained out of action from the Jammers. 

“—not even listening are you? I said get back to the cargo-ship!”  
“We can’t let them get away,” Lance shot back, darting under Red to look for _Shark-Tooth._

Only, _Shark-Tooth_ was gone.  
All that remained was the Cargo-ship, floating on its side, slowly beginning to sink towards the asteroid current.  
Yellow was approaching the main damage near the hangar bay doors; Hunk and Shiro ready to help the crew. The Castle joined them beside the ship, using its own gravitational pull to steady the ship.  
“Ship secure Princess,” came Coran’s chirpy voice. 

They had it all under control. They didn’t need Lance right now, he was free to track down the Pirates and—  
“C’mon Lance, leave the Pirates. We have to check on the Crew first.”  
“But Shiro-” _We can’t let them leave. This will just happen again. If they leave, they’ll attack another ship and we’ll have more battles, and they’ll have more victims._  
“We don’t have time for mutiny,” Pidge said, always happy to add salt to wounds, they’re smug little grin popping up on his feed. “Besides, I’ve already thrown a signal into their transmissions, hijacking the jammer frequency, so the next time they send out any sort of beacon, we’ll get their immediate location and we can go chase them then.”  
“But-”  
_“Not now_ Lance!” 

The feeds shut off, not giving Lance room to voice his argument. It was sound, it wasn’t bratty, and it was for a good reason. 

Lance sighed to himself, pulling off his helmet quick to palm his eyes.  
_[My Cub. What is wrong?]_ came the warm comfort of his Lioness. Nothing, Lance sighed, his anger washing away with her words. _Come on; let’s go help Shiro and Hunk. No doubt they’ll be needing the expert help of the team sharpshooter._  
Blue purred again for him, her warmth pressed up against the pain in his mind, soothing the headache that was beginning to appear from the loud noise of the jamming signal. He wasn’t worried. Five minutes in the Cryo-pod would heal it back to perfection. 

Lance entered the main hangar just after Hunk and Shiro did, setting Blue down beside them. She sealed the hole with her ice beam, in hopes of containing what little oxygen may still be trapped around the ship, _if there was any…_

The Paladins met in the dead-space, the artificial-gravity function of their boots holding them to the floor while the lights of their visors flickered to life, combating the gloom of the wrecked hold. Together they surveyed the damage; from the floating debris that had been flung into support columns, to the huge hole that stood where the hangar doors once did.  
The debris and darkness made it hard to see far. 

“Shiro… the crew, you don’t think that… that maybe they’re all… _that we’re too late?”_  
Hunk’s voice was small, even though the Comms relayed his words right into Lance’s ear – _still only one functioning_ – his worry echoed in their leader’s mask of devastation. “We can’t be certain Hunk. There may be some parts of the ship that remain intact. Let us hope the crew have gathered there.”  
“Let us hope,” Lance repeated; the first to step forward towards the gloom. 

But as he did, a loud crash resounded in the silence, freezing the paladins where they stood, their bayards suddenly drawn from _flight-or-flight_ instincts that two years in space had grown within them. Movement and the echo of scraping metal pulled Lance’s blaster towards the far end of the hangar.  
Behind them, Yellow and Blue raised their particle barriers, sensors on alert. They didn’t like this ship.  
_It’s okay Blue,_ Lance said, sending splashes of reassurance to his Lion, although how efficient that was as he looked down the scope of his blaster, he couldn’t say. 

_Waiting, waiting…_

And there, in a little green-and grey space suit, came a little alien; boots lighting up yellow from its own gravity functions that kept the creature stuck to the floor. He ducked the broken metal, giving it minor nudges to send the broken components from his path, scrambling towards the Paladins who had lowered their weapons. 

The Alien, Lance able to classify as a Trigamon, from the planet: _Griezian Slur,_ ran right up to the three, breathing deeply, on the verge of panic. “Paladins of Voltron! Praise the Sun, you’ve come to help us. Thank you for chasing away the monsters,” he said, body bending in a quick respective bow. “But we still need assistance. Some of our crew are trapped on the lower deck of the ship. The power has gone and we can’t prise the doors open by ourselves!”  
The poor thing wringed its hands, body trembling where it stood, glancing up between sympathetic faces. His visor was all wet from tears that streamed down his face, his little nose twitching nervously.  
Another followed, not as quick, perhaps more frightened as he watched his brethren cling desperately to Hunk who bent down to comfort him. He was but a child compared to the Paladins, his reach barely passing their hips. Even to Pidge, the Trigamon race was small of stature; this trait of theirs not helping them when they needed brute force to prise open the doors and save the remaining crew.

“Elmore, will they help us?” the second Alien asked, hiding behind the warped metal of a shipment crate, much like a child cowers behind their mother’s skirt.  
“Of course we will help,” Shiro said in the green Alien’s place, raising himself up like he was about to make a speech. “Lead us to your trapped crew. We’ll help you get them out.” 

“But what about the pirates?” Hunk asked, looking back to the hole of the Cargo-ship.  
It was sealed with Blue’s ice beam to help with the pressurisation of the inner ship, but that wouldn’t happen until the engines were restarted and the emergency oxygen supply was released from the containments of the evacuation deck. 

“That is why we’ve got Keith and Pidge on the outside,” Shiro said, dropping his gaze, addressing the two remaining Paladins. “Keith, you remain on lookout—”  
“No need,” Pidge interrupted, the sound of their smug little grin clear through the Comms. “I’ve got that tracker system working Shiro. They’re not here, in fact they’re nowhere near us. The readings say that they’ve stopped on the slip-side of _Nix.”_  
“Nix? Are you sure?” Allura sounded worried, or perhaps a little confused. “Unless they’ve got portal technology they shouldn’t be able to cover that distance in the short amount of time. _Nix_ is four Varga at full thrusters power from our location. There’s no way they should be able to cover that distance.”  
Coran was quick to assure the Princess that only the Castle of Lions was capable of that technology, and the ability to develop such space travel was lost with the destruction of _Altea._ “It is not just the Technology Princess. Portal technology isn’t capable without Altean Magic, which was infused from the ore that was used in the creation of the Lions, or the Castle.”  
“Which leaves the question Coran, how were they able to jump from the _Nairn System_ to the _Karta XI System_ in the space of _seven Dobosh._ It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Maybe they had some wicked cool boosters,” Lance offered, also staring at the makeshift seal of the once-gaping hole in the side of the spaceship. _This wasn’t just some patch job. They were going to have to evacuate the Aliens and find them a brand new space craft._  
The pirates, although having been chased off quickly, were able to do some lasting damage to the ship’s outer hull. Their lasers had also been targeting the ship’s engines, in turn crippling their internal power system. _Smart._

“You can’t go after them,” Shiro said, holding a hand up to silence Pidge in his ear, the customary irritated gifted to Lance; who, for once, wasn’t turning this whole shenanigan into a joke. 

The look and tone from the Leader got the Sharpshooter’s back up and unwisely poured irritation into his own voice. “But Shiro, I can—”  
“Be of better use to us here, rather than chasing off after the Pirates. This isn’t a game Lance,” the Black Paladin pushed, turning to Hunk, waiting for his two cents in case the boy thought to contradict Shiro’s judgement. Hunk was too busy reassuring the Trigamon Aliens. Elmore was certainly a lot calmer than his friend, Wilt, yet Hunk’s soothing charms were working wonders on the distraught little creature. 

“Our first priority is the crew,” Shiro continued, looking towards the existential damage like Lance.  
He eyed the wreaked doorway in which Elmore and Wilt had come from. “We’ll need to get to where they’re trapped and assess the damage, to see if we’ll be able to prise the doors open ourselves.”  
“Do you want us in there?” Keith tried again, playing the angle of leaving Allura and Coran on the castle to play watchdog duty. 

“No Keith, stay outside and keep an eye on any approaching vessels. Red has better manoeuvrability than that of the castle, so if a fire-fight does happen, you’ll be able to provide support. We know there are more than two ships out there, so keep your eyes peeled. Pidge, keep tracking the ships. Tell me if they start moving again, the direction and speed. Try to monitor how they’re moving so quickly.”  
“Rodger,” the Paladins replied in unison, the Comms crackling into silence. 

Lance stared up at Blue, her particle barrier still raised and the faint waves of uncertainty. _She didn’t like this ship._  
In turn, Lance continued to feel uneasy, his lion’s sixth sense adopted as his own. “Shiro, I still think—”  
“Lance. Let us just sort out the ship first,” the man said with a sigh, much like a mother getting fed up with explaining the reason _why_ to a child who just won’t listen. “You can go play Pirate Hunter when the Aliens are safely escorted off the ship.”  
The boy scowled at his leader’s choice of words. He didn’t want to go _play_ Pirate Hunter. He wanted to stop the Aliens that were hurting others, just like the innocents on this ship.  
And if it meant he was able to enjoy shooting up the Rouge ships, then that was just an added bonus, wasn’t it. 

The group set off then, silence the only thing between them as they traversed the labyrinth of dimly-lit corridors of steel walls, broken by archways leading off to more corridors and large storage rooms. None however, led the Trigamons where they wanted to go as the group continued down what looked like the main corridor. There was little debris floating now, although the grav-functions of the boot made walking just a little harder than Lance liked as he followed the pale blue suit of Wilt. Elmore had taken a liking to Hunk it seemed; sticking close beside him, holding his hand like a five year old would to their mother. The notion made Lance smile.  
He watched the Aliens with mild curiosity at first, but now he respected them in the way they were: calming their own fears to focus on the task of rescuing their brethren. 

“The doors are just up ahead,” Wilt called, turning to look over his shoulder, fear on his blue furry face.  
“He reminds me of Stitch just a little bit,” Lance laugh quietly with Hunk, watching the way Elmore clung to his arm as their pace quickened. 

“No one has time for your lame jokes Lance, you’re on a rescue mission,” Keith bit through the Comms, obviously having left the channel open in case Shiro called for backup.  
Lance felt his brow furrow. Then smoothed it. “I wasn’t joking about. I was making a scientific observation.”  
“No, you’re just being distracting.” He mumbled something about if _he_ was down here, but Lance just tuned it all out. 

Blue mewled in his mind, the nervous little way that sent shivers up his spine like he’d been dunked in a bath of ice water. “Stop it,” he hissed when Blue mewled again, the words spoken with words rather than with his and Blue’s mind-link.  
“No Lance, _you_ stop it,” Keith bit, thinking Lance’s irritation was aimed at him. “Keith I meant—”  
“You should take this seriously, considering your screw up this morning.”  
“You’re still hampering on about that—”  
“You almost _shot me!”_ Keith’s voice was halfway between a shout and a screech, making the mic sing three octaves higher than anyone wanted. But it wasn’t as bad as the Jammer noise. Lance’s ear was still out of commission.  
But before Lance could fight his corner, argue that _“I hadn’t shot you, nor was I aiming for you so get over it you big baby”_ lo and behold their mighty leader swooped in with “Enough!” his voice raised and stilling the argument that fizzled into narrowed eyebrows and evils focused on dark corridor walls. 

“We have a mission guys, so let’s stick with—”  
“But he started it,” Lance whined. And yeah, it may have been childish, but he didn’t want the blame for an argument he didn’t start. He wasn’t looking for confrontation, and sure it was a misunderstanding between them that caused this one to continue, but with Keith’s bad mood it seemed confrontation was all he was getting from the Red Paladin lately.  
He almost preferred the brooding silence. _Almost._

“Shiro—”  
“NO!”  
Shiro’s shout echoed through the wide open space of the silent ship, making the small Trigamons jump. Elmore latched onto Hunk, Wilt cowering behind his leg. 

Lance, fed up with getting the blame, _all the damn time,_ took a step forward, challenging his leader. Shiro shot him a look, but Lance only got the man’s name out before a heavy silence filled his helmet following a large click. His own voice sounded stuffy and muffled to his own ears; the static of Comms gone. 

Wide eyes he turned to Hunk, fearing if his other ear had blown from accumulated pressure, and now he was deaf until the time he found his way inside a Cryo-pod.  
But Hunk didn’t seem worried. He wore a look of pity instead. “Pidge turned your Comms off to stop you bickering,” came the muffled voice of his friend. It was like they were underwater, the very little oxygen remaining in the air just enough to allow the vibrations of Hunk’s voice to reach Lance’s ears. 

_The fuck?_  
They put him on _mute!_

“Pidge change it back,” he growled, but the little fucking Gremlin couldn’t hear him from where they were nestled happily in Red’s cockpit.  
Shiro can’t hear him either, although they’re only stood five metres away from one another. Instead of listening to Lance’s pissed-off spiel, he’s looking up at the huge doors they’re stood in front of. They’re big enough that Yellow could’ve pranced through them easily, but that also means that the Paladins aren’t going to be able to open them with brute force alone. 

_“Hello, hello is there someone there?”_  
A tiny muffled voice came from the barricaded doors, all soft and quiet but loud enough that the group could hear. The Trigamon Aliens rushed towards it. “Mohr’s! Mohr’s, the Paladins of Voltron have come to save us.”  
“Praise the Suns and Stars,” the voice replied, fear vanishing quickly. More chorused together in jubilant praise, the clicking of feet sounding as the Aliens rushed towards the still-closed door. It seemed the entire crew were beyond those doors. Save for Elmore and Wilt. How very…. _Convenient._

“Elmore, the power, we can’t reboot it from the room,” Mohr’s explained, the clicking quietening down so she could be heard through the five tonne of repurposed metal blast doors. “The escape pods are operational, so rerouting power to the outer access doors can give us leave.”  
“We can blast them from outside,” Hunk offered but Lance shook his head. “It could cause structural damage to the parts of the ship that still remain air tight. Opening that to space may crumple the entire ship and crush the crew. The only choice is to power the doors and open them.” Lance placed a hand on the blast door. “The inner doors have to remain closed, or the ship will crumple around Yellow and Blue. We can’t risk it.” 

The Blue Paladin turned to his team, awaiting their judgement. Instead, he was ignored. Or perhaps unheard, as Shiro and Hunk conversed, listening to Pidge and Keith add their two cents while Lance was outcast. _Fucking again._

“Keith has got a point. The only way this will work is to reroute power–” _that’s what I just said,_ “—so we’ve got three jobs. Keith, get Red to wait outside the access doors. If the escape pods have been damaged you’ll have to catch them. Hunk, go back to Yellow. You can provide support for Keith, but you’ll have to wait until the doors open to leave. Like Pidge said, if you leave too early, all the accumulated oxygen will rush out and the ship will crumple like a tin can.

“Lance, you’ll need to head to the power grid. Once I patch the problem in the engines, you can power up the ship. There probably won’t be much of a window, so you’ll have to open the hangar doors before the ship’s system automatically shut down again.”  
Lance gave a swift nod, knowing that if he spoke, he’d probably say something stupid and just be told to shut up again. 

Instead he turned to the little Trigamon still clutching Hunk’s leg. “Where is the power system at,” he asked. Elmore pointed down the Eastward Corridor. “It’s the fourth corridor on the right. There’s an elevator that leads to the top corridors.”  
“Rodger.” 

Lance was given a dismissive nod by his teammates, but he ignored them, like they ignored him. Instead he turned and made his way down the corridor away from the large, quiescent doors. He tapped at the Comms as he went, but all he received was static. Well, it was certainly better than listening to everyone talk when he couldn’t talk back. 

The spaceship reminded Lance of one of those abandoned houses from those cheesy horrors, that won’t stand to let go of the flickering light and creaking floorboard clichés.  
Replace the flickering light with a slow, dull pulse of a red emergency light and the creaking floorboards with the empty tap of armoured boot on metal plating, and Lance had successfully entered the set of a tacky sci-fi horror flick. No doubt a horrible experiment-gone-wrong lurked in one of the many corridors, and considering his muted-Comms system, he wouldn’t be able to warn the remaining team of the horror that lurked in the deep. 

Lance failed to suppress a shudder, shaking off the creeping feeling of his spine.  
Blue mewled again but he assured her it was his own brain freaking him out. “I’m good Blue. It’s just me over thinking things again. But thanks,” he said as he walked, eye out for the elevator shaft or a large room that would allow him to use his suits jet pack to boost him up to the top floor. 

Lance continued on, and although he wished to ignore the feeling of horror-film-protagonist, it was hard to ignore the ominous silence; the floating debris of destroyed doorways and empty rooms. Mostly from the pirates ransacking the hold, he thought to himself, passing one door that looked like it had been ripped clean off its hinges.  
The blast residue, and the scorch marks assured Lance it wasn’t the Incredible Hulk, which was marginally better than a bomb-happy alien space pirate. 

Lance poked his head into the room, flashing the light from his helmet into the gloom, for all the good it did. The room remained stubbornly dark.  
No emergency lights flashed in there, and presuming it was a dead end, Lance didn’t feel the need to explore and deeper. He continued on. 

The radio silence unnerved him. He debated turning it back on, if only to listen to the crackling, wondering if the crew had turned his own microphone back on.  
But Lance stopped at the thought of listening to them talk about him behind his back. _No, they wouldn’t,_ said a tiny voice, but it was drowned out by the others. _They muted me,_ he heard Angriness hiss. _I am on the team as well. They don’t have to treat me like I’m a kid.  
You were acting like a kid, _ said Reason, helpful as always. “I just wanted to help,” Lance mumbled, spotting the fourth corridor on the left, slipping down it. He clicked his heels, turning off the grav-function, enabling himself to swim in the dead-space, alternating between booster pack and spring boarding off the walls. Using the thrusters was faster, but the over-propulsion and debris obstacles made it harder. Besides, this was more fun. 

“Oh no, you can’t have fun Lance,” he said sarcastically, imitating Shiro’s tone. “Got to stay serious, got to be the good solider that follows orders without question. Why can’t you be more serious like Keith? He’s a good soldier.  
Or hey, be useful like Pidge or Hunk. They’re smart; they don’t turn everything into a game. Even Coran is useful and he doesn’t drive a Castle of a fucking Lion. Be more like him. _Be anyone except yourself.”_  
The angry tirade shot a spike of hurt through Lance’s body, and although they were his own words, they still fucking hurt. 

He tapped his wrist, trying the Comms again. But the radio silence confirmed Pidge’s earlier statement that she had muted him, and they hadn’t heard his self-hating spiel. “Yeah, yeah whatever,” he muttered to the pain creeping in his palms.  
It was a good thing he was on mute, he thought. It wasn’t right blaming the team. Sure, it wasn’t him who started the fight with Keith, but Lance should understand by now that their relationship would be this and just this. It doesn’t matter if he likes the boy more than he’s meant to: Keith’s made it pretty clear where the two of them stand.  
Even a steady friendship between the two of them is Lance pushing his luck. 

Lance ignored the pain in his palms, speeding his pace as he stalked the corridors. It was hard to accept the fact he has to sacrifice his own emotions for the sake of the mission, for the sake of keeping the team together. But it’s not just that. Lance can’t even be himself without pissing everyone off, without getting the rolled eyes, the dead-pan looks that make the boy want to shrink in on himself and not leave his bedroom. 

Everyone else gets it, so why can’t he?  
Shiro is a born and bred solider. He has got every excuse of bowing out, after a year of torture, but he doesn’t, he is their leader. Keith plays the good soldier, works hard, and gets good results. Pidge and Hunk follow orders, offer their smarts and don’t let the heaviness of everything get them down. Coran and Allura, despite losing their _fucking_ planet, remain as Voltron’s main support in and out of battle.  
Lance is just seen as the shallow smart-mouth whose only addition to the team is his number and sub-par capability of piloting Blue. 

Blue mewled at the self-deprecating thoughts, Lance quick to calm her. He couldn’t burden anyone with his problems, not even Blue, not whilst they were in the middle of a rescue operation. Not that he planned to burden them with his feelings _at all._

_Nope._

Lance’s problems were Lance’s. He had dealt with them forever. Nothing would change if he said it out loud, so why even bring that upon himself?  
Keith would probably just tell him to shut up and stop grabbing for attention, if he even bothered to listen in the first place. Shiro would question Lance’s role as the Blue Paladin and his efficiency as her pilot. Pidge would tell him he was over thinking things. They, on the other hand, had every right to fret and worry and be distracted with their missing brother and father.  
Hunk didn’t need to hear Lance’s problems. The big lump would listen, of course he would, he’s just that kind of guy, but then he’d worry and fret, and Lance would just end up dragging him down to his depression as well. 

So Lance’s problems would stay Lance’s problems.  
And not just the ones that remain in his head. 

Lance looked about, up and down the identical corridors as he stood in the cross section of several. He hadn’t been paying attention, not paying attention of the direction he’s come from, nor the way he was going.  
_Ah shit, he’s lost._

Lance twists to the corridor behind him, staring down the dark expanse, broken by intervals of red flashing lights and his own white searchlight, but none tell him which way to go. 

_Quiznak._ So now he was lost, and with his Comms still on mute – he checked just in case – he was out of contact with the team. _C’mon Lancey boy. I thought you were the Blue Paladin. This should be nothing to you._ Lance ignored the voice, suspiciously like Keith’s and took the corridor ahead of him. It led to a large cargo hold. That’s fine: he’d turn around and try again. The next room held nothing helpful. Nor the second, the third, fifth, seventeenth of twenty third. _Fucking Quiznak._  
But no, no this was fine. He would just have to check _every_ room until he found an elevator shaft or a stair well that would give him access to the top floor. 

Speeding himself up, Lance used his thrusters, venting his irritation on kicking the debris out of the way. They tumbled into the encroaching darkness and Lance has to force his mind away from the lingering fear that bubbled with it.  
Dark wasn’t Lance’s biggest fear, but anyone, lost and alone could feel the pressure of it on their conscious. He pushed it to the back of his mind; not quite gone, but out of the way enough for him to cover the corridor until he found an elevator, letting out a shrill whoop of excitement. He had to prise the doors open; his gun blast just rebounding off of the tampered metal when he called upon his Bayard to help him. 

“Come on work with me,” he growled, kicking at the doors. But it was like kicking something underwater with the lack of gravity in the damn spaceship. With barely enough pressure behind his blows, the door just creaked at him.  
Debris would have to be his synch then, grabbing a warped line of pipe. It did the trick, acting like a crowbar, opening the doors just barely enough for him to get through. His armour got stuck, his helmet just as useless, but with enough squirming, he was in. 

There were no emergency lights inside the elevator shaft. Why would there need to be?  
His searchlight was enough to scan the dark vertical tunnel, following it as far as the tunnel would go, the voice once more taking centre stage as his mind lapsed back towards irritation. _Why do we have to do this? I’m sure Hunk and the damn fluffy monkey could’ve fixed this problem while we played Pirate hunters and stopped any other Aliens suffering the same fate._

Lance remained quiet.  
The angry voice continued. _It’s not like taking the pirate ships out had been all that difficult. If Keith hadn’t stopped us, I’m sure we could’ve taken out at least one of the ships in two more shots. But no._  
We had to play it Keith’s way. He’s not even the leader. That is meant to be Shiro’s job.  
Lance had to agree with that. He didn’t mind taking orders from Shiro. Heck, he didn’t mind taking orders from anyone, including Keith as long as they were sound. As long as they made sense.  
He didn’t have time to confer with the voices however, as the end of the elevator shaft came into sight. 

This time, the doors were wedged open, and he only had the task of shimming through the broken doors, not giving a thought to why, considering the rest of the ship was untouched. Perhaps Wilt and Elmore had been trapped up here during the Pirate attack. 

The Blue Paladin found himself in a hallway he found himself on was brighter than the rest. With large windows lining both sides, he was able to see the expanse of the galaxy. Stars glittering in the endless black, the spherical orbs of different plants hung like a child’s nursery mobile.  
Brittle silence hung in the dark, a gentle sereneness filling Lance as he looked out, pressing against the glass to admire the vastness. Loneliness lays gossamer beside the beauty, and thoughts are sent to Lance’s family, a million light years away, too far. 

In the dark of space, Lance could see Red floating at the bow of the ship, the castle some hundreds of miles behind, though still glistening her perfect shade of Altean White. They’re inactivity told him there was no immediate danger, alongside Pidge’s refusal to accept him back on the public chat. Not that it bothered him—

_What was that?_

Lance turned to the far end of the corridor, where the clinking of _something_ attracted his attention, vastly different to the expected silence of the abandoned spaceship.  
“Hello?” he called out, wondering if he had found more stranded crew. “I’m a paladin of Voltron. I’m here to help.” 

Lance clicked his heels for the sake of turning back on the grav-function of his boots, enabling him to control his approach towards the far end of the corridor. He drew his Bayard just in case; it remaining in its casual appearance of inactivity. But with a shiver of doubt, it changed into its gun function.

He prowled the corridor, raising the gun to his sights, yet kept his finger from the trigger, in case it was the crew, just scared and hiding. 

The room was empty inside but, _bingo;_ there was the core generator, just what Lance had been looking for. Although, things were not going to be as simple as the team planned for.  
The _Bismuthorium_ fuel for the power source, were several glass chambers, taller and wider than the customary Cryo-pods these things resembled, although cruder in design compared to the sleek, smooth design of the Altean Castle.  
This ship’s chambers however, perhaps due to the Pirates plundering or their attack on the ship, had cracked the glass walls, several of them spilling out the luminescent fuel into the dead-space, free to float about the room in pockets of glowing blue, escaping from the splintered fissure in the vitrified quartz.  
.  
It was the broken glass colliding in the dead-space that had caught Lance’s attention. Asides from the clinking glass of floating burnt out energy cells, there was nothing to make the noise.  
Still, Lance didn’t stow his weapon. He may not have solely relied on his instincts like Keith, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have any of his own.  
He stole further into the room, knowing he’d lost the element of surprise, _if he still needed it,_ from when he called out. But a quick scan of the entire room showed Lance was its sole occupant. 

Lance watched the _Bismuthorium_ fuel pulsate blue, their hues mixing in a tumble of dances. The beads of iridescent light ebbed and flowed in intensity, entrancing him, a hand moving up to swish through the luminescent liquid. It was graceful in the way it floated in the air, Lance’s hand splitting the floating orbs of liquid into smaller pulsating shapes that morphed and moved.  
They were a thousand fireflies, humming gently in the light of themselves…  
_Wait. Humming?_

Lance noticed too late, turning too late to react as brain recognised the barrel of the blaster that was aimed straight for his face. He didn’t even have time to duck, dodge or even _flinch_ as the concentrated laser beam hit his helmet with a fully charged force.  
The searchlight flickered to _off,_ leaving only the _Bismuthorium_ to light the room. Lance shook his head, ignored the ringing in only one ear, turning to search for his opponent. 

“G-guys, there’s still…. St-still someone on board,” Lance choked, catching glimpse of his attacker near the biggest amorphous orb of floating fuel. Using the time Lance remained impaired, he drew the iridescent _Bismuthorium_ into what looked like a vial barely inches bigger than his hand. _The entire chamber in there?_  
At least now they knew what the Pirates had come for. Or Lance at least; who raised his Bayard, feeling it shift back into the blaster configuration that called for two hands to wield it.  
He hadn’t even realised it had become inept after becoming entranced by the firefly light. 

“Halt!” the boy yelled, brain rapidly searching for a plan. Is it a simple matter of immobilising the threat, or is he about to start a fire-fight with all the remaining pirates on board? _Stand-off?_

The pirate is in Lance’s sights, all he had to do was take the shot. 

The Pirate stopped. But not from the Blue Paladin’s warning, but in ode to the fact he had finished his task of collecting how much _Bismuthorium_ he could fit into his vile: the fuel source glowing brightly from inside the containment tube. Now strapped to his thigh like a glowing popsicle stick, the Alien had lit up a perfect laser mark for Lance to aim at. He lifted his gun ready to fire—  
But a shot came out of nowhere, piercing his leg. 

Lance couldn’t stifle the cry, hunching over, tumbling to the floor. He lost the grip on his Bayard that returned to its original form, clattering to the floor before rebounding and floating away from him. He reached out, his fingertips making it spin, but the thing didn’t return. 

Another shot hit him in the back, again, again, _again and again._  
Lance screamed louder, feeling the last laser not only hit him, but the high concentrated power of whatever weapon tear through his armour and the under layer of his Paladin space-suit. The burning sensation crept under his skin; poison in his veins that blurred his vision and threatened unconsciousness. _No, no! That can’t happen, not here!_  
Lance was able to fight the pain, pushing past agony in favour of adrenaline, ignoring the coldness of the dead-space that served to cauterise the wound, but painfully so. 

The burn throbbed deep into his gut; it was deep and warm, but not in a nice way. It felt like someone had their hand in there, like a three year old squeezing his organs like play dough.  
The pain wasn’t constant though. It wanes with stillness and grew with every deep breath Lance pulled into his burning lungs. He fears they’re hurt too, but that’s not the case. If the laser had pierced his back, right into his pulmonary respiratory sacks, he’d be inside out, painting space with his guts; his own blood taking the place of the _Bismuthorium_ fuel core. 

With lip-biting misery, Lance forces himself to a somewhat upright position. He’s thankful for the lack of gravity, knowing he wouldn’t be able to stand for a good minute if it was solely up to his body to keep himself upright.  
He’d do so now of course, for the sake of retrieving the _Bismuthorium,_ or protecting his team and the Trigamon from the uncontained Pirates that remained as a threat to them. 

The indescribable pain makes him want to curl up and wait for someone to come and rescue him. But he was a Paladin of Voltron, and he was here to rescue the Trigamon. 

There wasn’t anything else he would’ve allowed himself to do, but grab his bayard and follow the Pirates from the Main Power Core. The thrusters threw heat onto the freezing of his exposed skin, and Lance feared the lack of immediate sensation. _Maybe the injury was worse than he thought._ But there’s no time to think about himself.  
Lance has caught the threat back in the large corridor, not fifty paces from the main generator core. Two pirates looked back to him, saluting the Paladin in true Lance-fashion.  
They’re two-legged, taller than him by far, their tails used to keep them upright in the dead-space. 

_“Pahgeh Shehnen”_ one laughed, the vocal pattern high and trill. Wearing a jumpsuit of dusty red, she had a netted bag on her back, holding refined _Bismuth;_ most likely the base component of the ship’s fuel system before it was melted down and forged into _Bismuthorium._ In her hands, console memory cores, complete with frayed wires where she had ripped them from the ship’s electronic system unit with bare hands.  
The other, taller, flicked the lid on his luminous popsicle and allowed a drop of the iridescent liquid to bubble out. He smeared it on the window, withdrew, and aimed his blaster. 

“No, WAIT!” But Lance had no chance of stopping them. The Alien opened fire, the fuel alight, and the window sent glittering into outer space. Along with the pirates.  
And Lance. 

“NO!” Lance screamed in the darkness, dizzy, turning this way and that as his body travelled faster than it ever should. He caught a glimpse of Red, but Keith and Pidge were too busy waiting for the bay doors to notice Lance hurtling into the endless expanse. _Had they even seen the explosion on the bridge?_

“Keith, Pidge, _help me!”_ he screamed, panic threatening to choke his air supply. The Comms crackled back with dark malice and ice stole whatever air remained in Lance’s lungs, mouth wide as he gasped and gasped, but found no air. Was it his suit? Was the damage so bad that he was choking on the dead-space? 

Was he… _going to die?_

With his remaining air, Lance screamed one name he wished would never abandon him. _“BLUE!”  
[PALADIN!] _

Lance heard the motherly voice call out to his mind, the sobbing of panic flooded with relief and worry his Lioness felt from hearing his wailing panic. _[I’m coming my Cub, hold tight.]_  
He felt her presence in his mind, looking through his memory to show her the direction he had been sent. He held his breath, savouring the precious remains of oxygen as he felt her draw near, see the bright hue of her blue metal meet him before he could tumble into the darkness, never to be heard from again. 

_[I have you.]_ She took him in her maw, matching the speed of his trajectory so that he didn’t slam into her a thousand miles an hour and shatter every bone in his body. Maw shut, oxygen filling the room Lance yanked off his helmet to inhale the precious life source, choking on his own lungs, body burning from the sheer exhaustion.  
Adrenaline numbed the pain of his back, his legs, his head enabling him to reach the pilot chair with little trouble, ignoring the feeling of smooth leather press at the frostbitten burn on his back. His armour was destroyed, he could tell, but the cold of space and adrenaline had numbed the wound enough he could manage without a Cryo-pod for the time being. He didn’t have time to spare for one anyway.  
“The breach, we have to seal it,” Lance panted, sagging in the chair, desperate to keep his conscious from slipping too. 

_[Sleep My Cub; I will carry you home,]_ Blue said, flooding his mind with comforting thoughts. Lance fought her. “No Blue, I can’t. The plan has changed now we can’t manually open the doors from the outside.” Lance reached for Blue’s controls, hissing as the pain flashed in his gut. “The team need me awake; you can’t let me fall asleep.”  
_[Yes, My Cub.]_

Lance shared control with Blue, instructing her through their link rather than using her controls, returning her to the cargo ship’s bridge and the gaping hole of vitrified glass. A hiss of air escaped clenched teeth when Blue stopped sharply, his body following trajectory and jolting forward. Blue apologised, but Lance just focused on channelling his power of Blue’s ice blast to seal the breach. 

A light flashed on Blue’s control panel.  
Lance looked to it, a numbness claiming his mind as the thing pulsated like the _Bismuthorium_ fuel he failed to obtain. In favour of ignoring the light, Lance reached up to the compartment above his pilot chair, reaching for the vial of _Eyre_ \- refined glucose supplied for emergency that would act as an energy boost and numbing agent all at once. One vile was injected straight into Lance’s bloodstream through his wrist, another snapped and smeared into the still-bleeding wound that devastated his back, his cries stemmed as he bit into the glove he removed, choking on the pain all over again. 

_[My Cub,]_ Blue wailed pitifully, unable to do anything to help her Paladin that was barely able to fight the pain. Yet the _Eyre’s_ effects were practically instantaneous and understanding returned to the boy’s mind. The light flickered in his peripheral, Lance able to understand it was the Comms channel hailing him.  
His anger spiked. _So now they want to talk to me._

Lance barely had his finger off the button before Blue’s cockpit filled with various voices, all talking at once. Slowly, they thinned out, until the Blue Paladin could discern one voice from the other.  
“Are you okay? What happened?” Shiro sounded worried, voice tight as it took precedence over the others. Before Lance could answer, another voice spoke. 

Rattled, scratchy, Hunk breathed out a steady sigh of relief. “I’m good. Just bumped a little. Elmore is unconscious though. He hit his head when we got thrown back, although I can’t say why. Was it pirates?”  
Lance felt his chest go tight, wincing at the understanding that his failure had almost caused Hunk injury. 

“Hunk, you alright buddy?”  
“Yeah, yeah I’m good. Just got taken by surprise,” he says, forcing out a smile Lance can practically feel through the Comms system. “That’s good, that’s good. Where you are now, are you—”  
“In Yellow, yeah. I think that’s what saved me cause Blue just— Lance, is she with you? She just freaked out and broke out her ice wall.” 

But before Lance can confirm that Blue came to save him, he can hear the Princess and the Black Paladin talking, their voices taking centre stage. “But you’re okay,” Allura was asking, relief when Shiro confirmed that he and Wilt were okay. “Just knocked back. We’re heading to the trapped crew know, are they—”  
“They’re still trapped. Lance is trying to kill them.”  
“What? No I’m not!” 

Lance can see Red now, the damn Lioness still by the ship’s hangar doors, yet now she was staring in Blue’s direction. Keith’s voice continues in his ear and he’d be able to focus properly, but the numbing of the Eyre isn’t as effective as he hoped because he is pretty sure he can feel his bones melting inside his own body. 

“—Then what the hell was that explosion? It took out half the bloody bridge and almost the entire ship and the same time!”  
“That wasn’t my fault, that was the Pirates that were still onboard—” Lance hissed, shifting in his seat, feeling his skin tear away from the leather. _Oh great. His skin was melding into the pilot chair._  
“—And if someone hadn’t muted me, I would’ve been able to tell you that. And maybe I could’ve also told you that they were—”  
“Pidge shut you up, not me.”  
“Don’t you dare drag me into this,” the Gremlin mumbled, adding their own input, Keith quick to divert his attention away from Lance.  
But Lance had had enough of being ignored. 

“ARE YOU GOING TO LISTEN TO ME?” He roared; the pain in his body growing with the shifting of his body, even just the _thought_ of moving his limbs sending a burning ache into his gut. He was surprised he hadn’t thrown up yet. 

The Blue Paladin’s outburst forced everyone into silence, but Lance wasn’t about to regret showing his true thoughts, too caught up in emotion and pain.  
“Pirates were on board and attacked me. Could I warn you guys? Could I ask for help? _No, because someone muted me.  
Pirates _ stole the generator core’s fuel supply. Pirates stole the ship’s log data. Pirates blew up the bridge to escape, but _could I warn anyone? Could I ask for help when I was shot out to space?_

NO. Because you guys cut off my Comms and left me to deal with this shit _by myself.”_

No one said anything, the silence just as it had been while Lance wandered the halls of the ship. He glanced back to his display module, double checking that he was online and they hadn’t muted him again, but his radio wave lengths were spiking right alongside his heartbeat. 

“I was up here on my own, without any way of contacting you guys. I’m lucky I have a mental connection with Blue because she just saved my life. So before you have a go at me for saving my own neck, think whether or not this whole business was my fault or not.”  
Then, because Lance was feeling particularly petty, he flicked the Comms back off, muting the voices and muting himself. 

The cockpit fell into beautiful silence.  
Blue, curled around him inside his mind, knew not to reprimand him for his un-thoughtful outburst. He felt her emotions though, heard her thoughts of wondering how to comfort him, fear to the pain that was stealing more and more of her Paladin’s concentration. “Don’t worry Blue. This will have all blown over by dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow look at that, so much better than the first time I wrote it. Things are looking up here on out. But not for Lance though. (I’m sorry)


	2. A Want To Be Needed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like Lance wants to argue with his team, but he gets stressed too. They just need time and a little space then everything can go back to the way things were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning, Lance starts to get depressed. There are subtle mentions of previous self-harm and suicidal thoughts.

**System:** Nairn  
 **Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

Lance was the last to arrive back in the Lion hangar.   
They had freed the Trigamon already; having waited for Shiro and Wilt to reach Yellow before all three Lions destroyed the outer hangar doors, escorting the slightly scratched, but otherwise okay escape pod and the remaining crew to the castle. 

Putting off the inevitable kiss-and-cry, Lance injected another vial of _Eyre_ into his system before pushing back into the living compartment. Blue’s living quarters were quite spacious, considering she held a full double bed, a compact shower room, sitting area and a food preparation and storage system as well as Lance’s Speeder in an separate room just below.   
It was here the he found a change of suit and plenty of bandages to dress his wound before the _Eyre_ wore off. His damaged suit was tossed to the side, added to Lance’s _To Do_ list to patch in his spare time, already knowing the consequence from Allura if she found him with damaged or indecent armour. _“You’re Paladins of Voltron,”_ she would say. _“You carry the title of Defender of the Universe. You can’t very well look worse for wear when you’re carrying the hope of the people.”_ Easy for her: she never went into battle. 

Lance, however, had become quite competent at fixing his suit and undergarments. But that probably wasn’t a good thing considering it meant he was getting injured each time… 

The Cargo ship was scanned for life forms. Finding none, it was up to Yellow and Blue to guide it towards a planetoid that stood as a part of _Nairn’s_ Outer Asteroid Belt. It would be here that Hunk, Pidge and Coran could inspect the craft and deem it, either fixable, or utter junk.   
For the foreseeable future, the Trigamon were the Paladin’s new bunk mates, and those that didn’t require medical treatment were being given the full-tour by Allura and Hunk, who had been adopted by Elmore and his friends. That left Coran monitoring the sick bay and Pidge assessing the damage left by the pirates. Keith was probably training or brooding. 

That left Shiro waiting for Lance outside the Blue Lion.   
_Great._

“Hey Shiro, you doing well?” Lance asked when he dropped out of Blue’s mouth, hoping Shiro would pick up on the fact that Lance wants to overlook his outburst and act as if everything was a-o-kay. That way he could head to the med-bay and get Coran to check him over without having to worry the team about his injuries. He’d already made them feel bad enough with the whole angry rant; he needn’t burden them with the fact he got badly hurt as well. 

“Are you?” Shiro asked, motioning to the laser’s residue that remained on Lance’s right thigh. He had been preoccupied with the wound on his back that he hadn’t even registered that he needed to change his leg armour. Then again, he could work with it. After all, he had just come away from a gun-battle. It’s not likely he would’ve done so utterly unscathed.   
“Just a scratch,” Lance shrugged. “Guess the Pirate’s aim is as good as a Storm Trooper when it comes to gun battles.” 

Shiro’s gaze lingered for moment, and another, sweeping Lance’s body as he waited for Lance to drop his façade. He didn’t, expertly massaging his expression placid, but with a raise of the Black Paladin’s eyebrow, Lance crossed his arms.   
Bad idea. The muscles of his back pulled painfully taut, a squirming feeling on his back that made him draw and intake of breath. _Don’t show him you’re hurt, he’ll only blame you for it,_ Lance’s mind supplied, the ever-present fear of not being good enough taking forefront in his mind. 

“If you want to talk about what I said, can we do it after I have a shower and a power nap? I’m kind of drained,” Lance said; eyes averted to the access door. Somewhere beyond it was a Cryo-pod with his name on it, and by god, he was going to get in one before the Eyre wore off and he collapsed from the pain: the idiot still hadn’t uncrossed his bloody arms.   
He pretended the pain was irritation, hoping Shiro would back off like he does with Keith when he asks for space or with Pidge when they want five minutes piece to figure out this and that—

“Look, I get you were angry at Pidge—”  
“Not _just_ at Pidge,” Lance muttered, finally uncrossing his arm and turning back to the man who wasn’t picking up on the huge clue of _‘please leave me alone.’_

“Look,” Space Dad said, sighing whilst his hand rubbed the back of his neck. 

Lance watched. Waited.   
Shiro had this thing where he couldn’t let things lie. Lance, preferring to cool off in his own space, always struggled when Space Dad brought everything to the table. Allura had the same way of thinking, Hunk too, in the way they couldn’t let the argument blow itself over, probably thinking instead it has been left to stew.   
Lance preferred Pidge and Keith’s way of dealing; silence and a mutual understanding not to bring it up again, although Keith failed with the latter. 

Lance had no other choice than wait and take the lecture, taking comfort in the fact that Shiro was doing this here, now, without the prying eyes of the team. It wasn’t fair that Lance got shredded whilst he had an audience and Shiro respected him enough not to publically shame him. _If he respects us at all._

“I had no control of the explosion,” Lance began, hoping to get the show on the road.   
Apparently, that wasn’t the direction Shiro had been aiming for. “Unless you set a bomb off yourself, I’m not holding you accountable for that, nor the fact that you were alone on the ship with pirates—”  
“And no way to call for help.”   
Shiro grimaced at that, nodding his head in agreement. “And no way to contact us, you’re right.”

“But Lance—” _And there’s the ‘but’_ “—but you have to understand, this could’ve gone a lot smoother if you had cooperated from the start.” 

Lance tried not to scoff. He hadn’t been uncooperative. Perhaps he shot in first with Blue, but that had nothing to do with the fact there were Pirates on board, he got muted, and he and the Red Paladin were at wits since morning. Now Lance was left to face the lecture from Shiro, because it was easier to put the blame on him. He knew how it worked.   
Shiro would talk. He’d say his side of the argument whilst Lance dutifully kept quiet and accepted everything without complaint. Because he can’t complain, ¬ _it is his fault._ Then just before Shiro would feel guilty and worry he was ruining their relationship, ruining their chances of being to be able to bond and form Voltron, Lance would step in with a quick joke and a forced smile. That would be that and everything would go back to the way it always was.   
It’s okay. This is just another lecture.   
_It was just another god dam lecture._

“You can’t just fly off in front of everyone when we had a plan in place. Pidge warned us about the jammers, but you didn’t think and went in anyway. And when you got in between the ships…” Shiro’s eyes narrowed, face dropping away, failing to conceal the anger of pressed lips, hard eyes.   
“You know if Hunk had been any closer he would’ve rammed you out the way and gotten hit himself. God damn it, he fucking _tried,_ but lucky for him, Yellow isn’t fast and couldn’t get there. Yellow’s limitations saved him, but if they hadn’t then he would’ve been hurt, Yellow would’ve been damaged too. Black is still banged up from our last run in with these Pirates. And alright it wasn’t your fault,” he said at Lance’s look. _Of course it wasn’t my fault. I warned you about the damn Ion Cannon. You just didn’t move quick enough._

“Fine, everything worked out this time. _This time,_ Lance. But what about next time? What about when Pidge has to step in, and they get hurt? What if Allura or Coran suffer the consequences, what if it is Keith who steps in—”  
“Like that will happen,” Lance scoffed, despite himself. He folded his arms again, biting his bottom lip to stop the feeling of skin tearing.

“It could,” Shiro growled, raising his voice. Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, in what universe? If you hadn’t noticed, he hates my guts,” he said, voice cracking at the truth of it. Shiro didn’t notice. “He doesn’t hate you, but you certainly annoy him when you don’t take things serious like him, you don’t follow orders like he does, you don’t put your all—”  
“Like hell I don’t,” Lance spat, matching the Black Paladin’s volume. 

It always comes back to Keith. _Be more like Keith, listen like Keith does, be useful like Keith._  
So what if it’s petty, inconsiderate and god he hates himself sometimes just because the guy he likes more than he should doesn’t even think they’re comparable, whereas Lance is always, _always_ being compared to him.   
Ever since the Garrison, he’s been told to drop the idiot act and be a good astute student, like Keith. Unable to get into the fighter pilot programme until Keith dropped out and left him a place. A substitute. _A stand-in._  
Lance kept trying of course, trying to progress even without Keith there. Instead his enemy was Iverson; back-handed comments from him and the class, being shot down by Hunk and Pidge when they were supposedly making jokes. And when Lance asked them to stop, they teased him for having his feelings hurt. 

In Voltron it is the same.   
No longer cadets in training, but soldiers in war. There’s more stressors, more fears, more responsibility that Lance feels like he’s going to be left behind the second he stops to catch his breath. Second-rate in combat, second-rate in piloting, second-rate, second-rate, _second-fucking-rate—_  
They’re always pitted against one another in training, there’s always the backhanded comment of _“Keith wouldn’t do that.”_  
Probably because Keith has a stick up his ass or he has the confidence and the support of the Paladins, whilst Lance is constantly vying for some sort of acceptance, battling his fears that won’t leave him alone, a million miles away from home, from his family, from somewhere at least he knew he was wanted. 

There was a moment. Just _one_ moment when he thought Keith appreciated him, when Lance might’ve been able to get past a petty rivalry he created to hide his shame, his fears, and his fucking emotions. But Lance, the idiot, the flirtatious playboy had to go and ruin it by _“conveniently forgetting,”_ disrespecting Keith and setting himself further back on the Monopoly board. 

Blue purrs in his mind, but the calming feelings are just a slap to his face. Even Blue has to watch over Lance, to stop him from making mistakes.   
Bitterly, Lance pulls away from her light, back to the Black Paladin that stands before him. He squeezed his hands into fists, feeling the taut of pain grounding him.   
When he spoke, his voice was eerily calm.   
“Look, I get that you and Keith seem to hold each other on pedestals and he’s the perfect soldier for this little Voltron game we’re all stuck playing, but if you want me to be like him, to follow orders without question, you’ve got to realise that’s not me.” 

“That is beside the point.”   
“Is it?”

Shiro pinched the bridge of his nose, deciding to ignore the usual argument of _“be more like Keith.”_

“I get that this is fun. Space Pirates, god knows I loved them as a kid, but we’re paladins of Voltron, Lance. We’re not five.”   
“Except you.”   
“Except me— _Hey!_ I’m being serious Lance.” The Black Paladin growled at his teammate’s antics, but Lance just wanted him to get to the point already. The pain was bugging him and listening to this spiel was getting tedious. 

“And I’m wondering if you have a point to this conversation,” Lance said, unable to bite down the words before he spoke them.

Shiro scowled. Lance stared. 

Silence dragged between them; Shiro not standing down because he believes himself to be right, Lance refusing to break. He’s pissed, he’s angry, he doesn’t deserve this.  
Stubbornness won in the end, Shiro buckling first with an exasperated sigh, dropping his head in a hand to rub at his brow. Was Lance giving him a headache? _Pity._

“Just grow up Lance. You’re meant be a Paladin of Voltron.” 

The words hit Lance hard. With clear precision they hit their mark, poisoning him with doubt that spiralled deep within him. Every dark thought about him being needed or not, being accepted or not, came rushing back at full force. It winded him, clouded his mind with painful emotion. 

The Blue Paladin felt his face contort into a hurt expression, eyes shooting to the floor. His vision blurred, wet anger threatening to shake his voice, make his eyes water heavily. He hated wet-anger; the feeling of weakness it drags up from the depths of his stomach because he cares too much. Cares what Shiro thinks of him, what the team thinks of him, whether they think of him important or not. 

Lance refused to allow the tears to fall.   
He shoved his anger and irritation deep inside himself. He’d unpack those bags when he had the time; when no one was looking and he didn’t have to keep the happy-go-lucky-Lance guise, when he could release anger onto the training dummies, when he’d scream and shout and drive his fist home on the metal gladiators, accepting the pain as punishment because he’s weak, he’s not strong, he’s weak, weak, _weak, weak, weak—_

“Yeah, I get it, I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.”   
“Lance—”  
“Honestly Shiro, I understand, loud and clear,” Lance said, turning around and walking away, not giving Shiro a chance to call him back and half-heartedly apologise, all for the sake of Voltron’s bonds. But he’s not being allowed a chance of a bow out. 

“Yes. Stop being reckless. Stop making things more difficult than they already are.”   
It was easy to hear the anger in Shiro’s voice. Not just irritation at the younger Paladin, but something else. “You seem to constantly butt heads with Keith for this game of rivalry, and I wouldn’t say anything against it; healthy competition will help you improve your skills. But I won’t ignore it when you’re endangering the rest of the team.”   
“I didn’t—” but Shiro cut him off. “The reason Pidge turned off your Comms was because you couldn’t stop bickering. You took focus away from the mission, in an unknown environment which was dangerous.”   
“And leaving me on mute was the best idea you could come up with?”  
“Stop challenging everything I say!” Shiro yelled, stepping in with anger. Lance jumped back, a distressed sound broken behind his lips from the pain of moving. His eyes watered slightly, but did Shiro notice? _No,_ he was still busy shouting. 

“Just take responsibility for your mistakes Lance, because today, it was _your_ fault. No one else is to blame, not Pidge for cutting communication considering they were patching the problem you caused with Keith.”   
Not “you _and_ Keith caused.” Because Keith can’t do anything wrong. No, this was all Lance’s fault, all of it: The Pirates attacking innocents, the Galra declaring war on the known universe, the reason Voltron is still fighting this goddamn war, because Lance can’t seem to do his job right and defeat the enemy, save everyone, save the Universe. 

Yeah.   
It was all Lance’s fault. 

“I can’t keep doing this Lance. Every time, you screw up, every time I’ve got to stand here and tell you, you can’t seem to do that. We’re not kids, this isn’t a game, _this is war,”_ Shiro said. His tone returned to its normal volume, although every soft edge, every caring notion is kept clean from bitter words.   
“If Zarkon wins, we won’t just lose the war, we’ll lose Earth, we’ll lose freedom, and we’ll lose lives. Is that what you want?” Lance actually laughed. “Are you seriously asking me that?” He didn’t get a reply, just a pointed look.

Lance dropped his head, lifting a hand to wipe his face. “Look if you want me to apologise for my mistakes, I will. But I’m not taking the blame for everyone else anymore. So sorry, or whatever, but I’m tired and I need a shower and sleep.”  
Lance moved first, ignoring Shiro’s hand that reached out to grab him. “I’m tired Shiro. So just… just save it for now, okay?” He didn’t get a reply, but the Black Paladin didn’t move to stop the younger as he took himself from the hangar, dragging his hurt with him.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Lance has always loved the wind, the rain, loved the sunlight and the clouds that drifted lazily in the bright blue sky on Earth. He loved the Beach that lay just beyond the boundaries of his own backyard, back Home.  
When he felt low, he’d take himself to that perfect stretch of golden sand, warmed by the sun’s light. Some days it would burn his bare feet and he’d race to the surf, the rolling waves crashing on damp sand where walking was bearable.  
Lance would walk and walk the length of Beach as far as he could, until the Skies were painted in warm, soft hues. Purples and pinks as bright as budding flowers, blues and golds vibrant like bird feathers fluttering across the crimson sky.

On days when the doubt was stronger; clinging to him like tar, making it hard to walk, Lance would take to the water. Bathe, swim, dive.   
In the water he felt alive, cleansing himself of the tar and the heaviness, returning home with real smiles. 

The voices didn’t get to him that much back on Earth.   
But here in space, Lance had no boundaries to protect him. He didn’t have his golden beaches, the fluorescent glow of sunlight on the cresting ocean waves, his multihued sky of a thousand colours. 

So Lance found new beaches.   
Red sands as dark as blood, green water as vibrant cactus blooms, plants that grew like rocks; stubborn and discoloured, with a nasty taste for human flesh.   
Sometimes they weren’t beaches at all, but pockets of water that would float in the atmosphere of a shattered gravity. Filled with life, with plants and fish that swooped and dived between the floating amorphous pools.   
He found new skies; yellow and pale in the light of seven suns, purple and foreboding as night came, white as freshly fallen snow as thunder clouds filled the sky, raining down pink bubbles that would bounce and roll and stick to Lance’s armour as he waded through the never ending sea that barely reached his shins. 

All of it left behind at the jump of a wormhole, the call of a new mission. 

So Lance found peace in privacy upon the Castle, not to be abandoned with every step forward.   
The Bridge; where he’d look out through the stars, to planets and burning nebulas. To the silence of space as bright and never-ending of Lance’s hope to return home. His home was out there, somewhere.   
One of the bright lights the twinkled back, or perhaps not, perhaps he was too far from even the glow of the familiar Green and Blue planet he feared he’d never see again.   
No. He’d see them again. He had to. 

The expanse did little to calm Lance when his mind focused on the distance, the fear, the insignificant hope that he _would_ return home one day; a war hero with a thousand stories to tell, a hundred more to be told. 

Lance found himself another space, a quiet, out-of-the-way space where he wasn’t disturbed by the team in moments he was weak. They stopped finding him silent in the bridge, looking at the holo-projection of Earth; its green lands and blue seas.   
They stopped finding him at all, no one yet to stumble upon the Holo-projection room, once housing the memories of King Alfor, now housing the image of home. 

Lance’s home. 

After weeks of hard work, sorting through streams of code and data dumps pulled from his own memories, Lance had been able to recreate the perfect moment of Sunset, when the sea reflected the sky, when the day was drawing to an end and it was beginning to grow cold. He had finally recreated his beach, only to crumble to the floor, sobbing like a child that had lost his mother.   
Even as perfect as the projection portrayed, as exact as a stored memory could be, Lance couldn’t feel the Sand beneath his toes. He couldn’t feel the waves that used to soak his sandals when he’d forget to dodge the lapping sea. He couldn’t hear the cawing of gulls that swooped and dived, scanning the line between Sea and Land.   
The colours of the sunset were false and bright. It just looked _wrong._

Blue remained as his support, the ever-present of security inside his mind to stop the demons from swallowing him whole. She was there to lean upon, instead of the team who didn’t need the extra pressure of _Lance’s problems._ Not when they’re fighting a war. Not when there are other problems, bigger problems, more important problems that needed their attention, their focus, their energy… 

But as Lance stood there, back in the Lion hangar, just a stone’s throw away from Blue, he feels her support waning: Her thoughts not as strong within his mind, her calming words not as loud as he stares blankly at those before him.   
Coran was helping Hunk and Pidge run through the basic list of checking the Cargo ship system alongside the Trigamon; robust little creatures that had a knack for mechanics and fixing things.   
Allura remains with the grey female, and the shy one that led the Paladins to their trapped friends. They’re speaking of coalition and agreements, Galra movement and politics that Lance has neither the mind nor energy to listen to. He has been summoned for a task as well, given to him by Shiro who stands in front of him. He hears his words, but they are halted somewhere between listening and understanding; caught behind the gossamer veil of tiredness that drags at his mind, making his arms and legs heavy, his body slow. 

The tiredness had begun a while ago. He couldn’t remember exactly when it first started, when he first heard its silken voice whispering distorted lullabies in his ear. It is poison in his mind, twisting thoughts to sickly self-deprecating idealisms that only fuel the monsters of fear and doubt of self-worth.   
Eyes are cast to the Yellow and Green Paladins, leading the Trigamon away with a wave to the three that remain. Hunk’s gaze remains on Lance for a moment longer than normal, but then the Trigamon usher him away to the pods they’ll be taking to the Planetoid to start repairs on the cargo ship. 

Lance watches in silence, not even having the energy to scowl as he watches them leave him behind. Its ice in his chest and Blue is calling out to him, but he blocks her out, a dismissive turn in his mind that leaves her lost in memories, clawing at his understanding in hopes of her Cub hearing her voice.   
Lance does not. Instead he hears his own: dark and angry. 

_And now they’re sending us away. They’re sending us far away.  
Maybe we shouldn’t bother coming back. _

Lance doesn’t fight the thoughts, doesn’t deny, nor confirm its mutterings. He would, normally. His persona would prevail, the mask back on and he’d shout something to Allura about her trying not to miss him whilst he is gone.   
But he is tired. He doesn’t want to see her aggravated eye roll, doesn’t want to hear their sneering laughs and quick bunts that do so much more damage than he has ever let on.   
So Lance keeps his mouth closed and says nothing as the hangar doors slide shut. 

There is darkness inside him, draining him of energy. He knows it; already familiar with the sense of emptiness. This time there is neither fear nor a sense of lost as parts of himself slip away like sand in a time turner. He knows where he stands and remains standing before the edge.   
He is tired, although the blame falls to him after denying time for a Cryo-pod. Not when there is work to be done, fixing the Trigamon’s ship and keeping watch, in case the Pirates try to retaliate for Voltron’s interference. He can’t be useless, he can’t be a burden. Healing can wait until night. 

Lance barely has enough conscious to acknowledge that Shiro has finally stopped speaking. 

_[Little Cub, you’re shutting me out,]_ Blue calls again, desperate to help him, struggling with the growing distance even now as he stands just a few feet from her and the readied pod that would take him and Keith through the stars to their destination.   
They are due for _Torous,_ a small planet that was used as this sectors dumping ground, suggested by Wilt, the shy Trigamon who had been aboard several disposal ships in the past, in which _Torous_ has been the final destination.   
It was here, in the _Ruse Minor_ system that he and Keith were to salvage spare parts to fix the cargo ship, the flight pod set up, waiting for Hunk and Pidge’s transmission of parts needed for the repairs. 

Everyone has their tasks and that includes Lance, even if he is injured. _But I haven’t told them,_ he thinks weakly, looking to the Black and Red that continue the discussion, leaving Lance out. It is a simple retrieval mission; it shouldn’t need this long an explanation to get underway. But Shiro enjoys his speeches. It probably helps with his Leader persona.   
Besides if Lance says something he’ll probably just invite the man to lecture him again. Lance doesn’t have the energy for it, or for the energy of fighting his corner that he could retrieve the parts himself; the visual diagrams on the pods display system and Pidge’s locator programming plenty of aid. He had suggested it, saying there were more hands for the actual fixing of the ship, but his diplomatic skills weren’t quite up to scratch it seemed, when he was shot down quickly by the rest of the team.   
_Not time for playing around,_ was repeated a few times, no matter how many dark glares were gifted to Voltron’s glorious leader. Lance suspected he had told the other Paladins, princess included, about his lecture to Lance and they all thought they’d jump on the bandwagon in case Black forgot anything.   
And now, he is being shipped off to _Torous,_ out of the way, with Keith as a babysitter. 

Pidge had nominated him before they, or Hunk could be advised to go. _“Keith’s going too. He knows what we’re looking for. He built his bike from scraps after all.”_ Lance pretended not to see the disgusted look thrown his way. He tried not to look disappointed; he knew what parts were needed, even with Hunk’s brief assessment. He’d spent enough time around him and the green Gremlin to know the difference between a sonic screwdriver and an Omni-drill.   
But credit wasn’t given where credit was due and Lance tried to hide his hurt, but the falter in the Red Paladin’s annoyance told him it had failed.   
_Shit, no, come on. Focus. Focus._

Lance was already fighting too many battles: Pain from the wound on his back took up enough of his conscious; the little that remained was left at the mercy of his negativity.   
Besides, the pain wasn’t that bad anyway unless he moved too much or too quickly. The vials of _Eyre_ stored in a cavity of his chest armour would keep his pain at bay while slip-side on _Torous_ and the fresh air of the planet would help him clear his head. After completing his task, he’d return and get Coran to help him into a Cryo-pod for the night, letting the major wounds heal without affecting anyone else by being out of commission. 

Lance would do it quietly of course. He didn’t fancy everyone complaining that he had got hurt. _Again._  
“It is your fault anyway,” they would tell him, bringing back up the argument of offline Comms and petty bickering that leads to such disasters.   
No, it was best to avoid it and keep his mouth shut. 

Tiredness was pulling at the cloak of lies he wrapped himself around himself, the disguise tearing at the seams as he pulled, fingers curling into it, continuing to tug it from the darkness’s grip.   
Still it whispered. _Come on. Show them the real you. Show them the real disappointment you are. Show them how much of a burden you are. Convince them they don’t need you._

Lance shook his head, trying to rid the thought, but his mind remained at the mercy of the monster’s poison. It was hard to fight with the tiredness sapping his energy, leaving him vulnerable to the venom that shifted Pidge’s words darker. Meaner. _“We don’t actually need you. But you’ll get in our way, and at least Keith can keep you in check. Don’t cause any problems for him, ‘kay?”_

_Always taunting him, teasing him—_  
“—nce?” 

_—always making him feel worthless—_  
“—ance?” 

_—making him feel obsolete—_

“LANCE!” 

Lance looked up; mind catching on the self-hate as he was flung back to the present as Shiro stood before him. “Are you listening?” he said, brow cocked upwards, eyes flittering over Lance’s figure; slouched from tiredness, arms folded around himself as if he is keeping himself standing. 

“I got it. I’m ready to go,” Lance blanched, hoping that Shiro hadn’t just asked him a question. But the man’s widening eyes told him that he’s chosen the wrong words. Concern filled Shiro’s expression, his voice too. “Lance… are you okay?” The Blue Paladin usually had a very keen sense of his surroundings, on and off the battlefield, so this vacancy in his eyes was quick to be noticed.   
Yet it was mistaken, as Lance stood up taller, flashing a grin, his cocky bravado raised as a shield and a mask all at once. “Yeah, I’m great.”   
Keith rolled his eyes behind the older; turning to board Pidge’s modified spacecraft and climbing into the pilot seat. 

Shiro didn’t look convinced however.   
Not wanting another lecture, Lance threw his arms wide, twisting and turning like he would during warm-up before training. The monster scraped its claws down his back, over the hideous burn despite the double dose of _Eyre_ flooding his system, but Lance’s façade remained and the leader was left none the wiser.   
He had wanted to sleep off the pain in a Cryo-pod, but of course the Trigamon’s dilemma was more pressing, and Lance was left with raiding Coran’s supplies for extra _Eyre,_ too much gauze to carry and a heat pad that would help with the twinge of walking. He hadn’t even the time for a proper shower, instead focusing on covering the wound with _Eleiryian:_ concentrated _Eyre_ combined with the healing gel of _Fenian_ that was used in the process of the Cryo-pod.   
The stuff was utter magic, but the small amount Lance was able to swipe wouldn’t last and he restricted himself to using it only in emergencies. It was a good thing to have on hand if being abandoned by his teammates was to become a regular occurrence. 

Lance had used _Eleiryian_ before, craving the Gel that left no residue of scarred tissue or damage skin, but Coran had given it to him with a practiced lecture on the uses of such a dangerous drug. Perhaps it was the numbing side-effect that was to blame for making Lance’s head fuzzy.   
Turning hurt, so Lance barely caught a glimpse of his injury in his bathroom mirror; nothing more than a dark and deep red _something_ across his once beautiful tanned skin. He just hoped he had managed to cover most of it, letting the Gel do its work. 

Thinking of the burn caused an itch to ripple up his spine, but Lance ignored it. He returned his focus to Shiro, calm and collected; the perfect leader. Then his posture changed. Back straight, arms folded, legs splayed evenly, unconsciously preparing to defend himself.   
_The first strike._

“Lance, I need to be able to trust you.” 

_Oh look, he doesn’t trust us._ The monster was back with full force, fuelled by Lance’s pain. Claws around the boy’s neck stopped him from speaking, choking him enough not for it to be painful, but a warning that speaking will only bring more pain.   
Lance hurts enough. He doesn’t want more.   
So he remains silent, listening to Shiro’s words, unable to refute those that struck with clear precision, each drawing blood and pain and the fear that his doubts were _right._

_Then again, do any of them trust me?_  
And as Lance thought about it, mind wandering away from Shiro’s words, he felt the ice in his chest grow colder. 

They’re always keeping an eye on him, never quite paying him full attention, just the little nod of the head when he opens his mouth, the affirming notion that they know he is there. Like the smile you give a child when they speak and you weren’t quite listening. 

They don’t listen to him, not really. They’ll acknowledge he is there, but his thoughts, his two cents are worthless when gold and diamonds pour from their mouths.   
It doesn’t matter that he cares for them, that he loves them like family. He has already proven he’ll protect them, when he took the blast for Coran. _All Allura was concerned about was her precious crystal._  
When Pidge revealed that they were a girl and Lance knew not to make fun of them, or joke about something like that. _They left him out the loop and didn’t think he needed to know._  
When he almost lost Blue to Rolo and Nyma, the lecture that followed, the jabs that no one else had almost lost their Lion. _They haven’t trusted us since._

The darkness inside grew hot with anger, shown only in clenched fists and a tight jaw.   
Shiro didn’t notice. He was too busy giving Lance the run-down of the simple grab-and-go mission. “We’ve all got our duties, so it will just be the two of you. And I know that you two have been at ends since yesterday morning, but everyone else is busy.” Which means Lance isn’t Shiro’s choice. He’s just a substitute for someone more fitting.   
“The pair of you will be out of local Comms range for a while, until Coran contacts you. But he’ll be helping Pidge and Hunk with repairs, so he can’t be monitoring you while you’re on _Torous.”_

The heat burnt in Lance’s chest. _Ignore it, ignore it,_ he thought quickly, feeling his brow furrow with the effort.   
_[Cub, you’re hurting,]_ Blue called, mewling in his mind, pushing against him to help keep him standing against the torrent of scalding water that threatened to knock him off his feet. He thanked her, held her close. 

Shiro’s words brushed his ears but Lance had switched off from them. He shuffled where he stood, looking to Keith already seated in the cockpit of the shuttle. He wasn’t looking this way; instead his hands fiddling with the module as the engines sputtered into life. “Shiro, I’m good to go,” he called, ending the lecture early. Lance took it as his sign to join Keith, stepping around their Leader.   
But Shiro grabbed his arm, halting Lance’s steps for a moment. He looked to the hand, then to the man that held him back. “Don’t fight with Keith,” he said with stern voice, the words tinted with a warning. “While you’re out there, it will just be the two of you. I get that he gets on your nerves. I find his stubbornness difficult to deal with sometimes too.”

Lance looked between him and his travelling companion. He could almost hear is thoughts. _This was the umpteenth lecture this week. Why hasn’t Lance figured out we can’t deal with this nonsense every time? No one else needs reminding, but Lance does._

Shiro saw the anger that wormed its way on the Blue’s face and couldn’t help the exasperated sigh. “I get he is at fault too—”  
“Then maybe should be lecturing him instead of me.” The words came out before he could stop them, a trickle of anger slipping from Lance’s mouth. Shiro’s words too, came out carelessly, cast with a frustration brought by the repetitive argument. It was unusual to get back-chatter from Lance, not sure how to approach, yet still failing badly at these unsure little attempts.   
Maybe it was a mixture of tiredness and the effort of the near constant battling with Pirates and the Galra, even the worry for Black; who remained sluggish and quiet from the Ion Blast.   
No matter what feelings lay behind them, Lance could only hear the anger in Shiro’s voice. “You’re a Paladin Lance. You need to learn not to act so childish and accept that you are also to blame.” 

_Childish?_ He wasn’t a _child._  
Lance had to grow up quick, back on Earth. At twelve, he was responsible for his younger siblings whilst his Mama worked as many jobs the day would allow. He had to balancing the care of three toddlers, helping raise his brother and sisters between juggling schools assignments, his part-time job and the lies that he and his family were fine.   
The scholarship to school was a godsend for the poor family, but that didn’t take the strain off of Lance’s duties: housework, school pick up and drop offs for his younger sisters, Esmeralda and Isabella, making sure Ariesa completed her homework, that Jeremy and Milo didn’t stay out too late.  
Between everything, it was like he had become a parent himself. He hadn’t been a _child_ since he was four and that _man_ left Mama with countless bills and debts that nearly had them on the streets. 

_How dare he?_ Lance thought angrily. _Shiro doesn’t know anything about me. How dare he—_

“I have spoke to Keith already,” Shiro continued. “Just follow his lead, keep your heads low and we’ll see you back here in a couple of vargas.”   
The Black Paladin looked at the boy expectantly, daring him to question his order. 

Lance felt like sticking it to him, using every twisted word, carving them into a spear of hate and anger and loathing, and just ramming it into the older man’s gut. Twist it round inside him, make _him_ feel the pain for once, make _him_ feel was Lance feels, let _him_ be on the floor for Lance to kick _him_ and make himself feel better for once. 

“Sure thing. See you when we get back.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Ruse Minor  
 **Location:** Inbound For Torous

Silence hung thick in the small space of the shuttle’s cockpit.   
Keith remained alert in the piloting seat, Lance slumped awkwardly in his chair, head leant against the cold glass, just watching the Universe fly past as they traversed the outer regions of _Ruse Minor,_ heading for the Universe’s dumping ground.   
He isn’t focused on anything; not where they’re going or the planets they pass, the star constellations and moons they’ve never seen before. It holds a beauty to it that Lance, with all his effort, fails to appreciate. Instead, he can only feel empty; so far from Blue that her presence inside him is gone, replaced only by the dark void of nothingness. 

They haven’t been to this system before. All the burning nebulae and storm forms are new, in bright colours of fire and sunsets. The storms remained small in the vastness of black, but Lance knew them not to be small, just far.   
The red eye of dust planets blink at him as he passed, their unmoving, un-breathing forms remaining powerful and angry as he approached their territory. They were unwelcoming and angry, but Lance paid them no mind. They weren’t living, thinking creatures. They were dead, burnt up planets that strayed too close to the sun they orbited; once living and thriving now left to be blow away into nothing but space dust. 

Lance watched, wondering if he too, would one become space dust: Lost to the vastness, his body floating idle and free through the stars until he’s burnt up by stars. He envies the planets for their lives; long, seemingly unending. Jealousy, that he is Human, simply a speck in the timeline.   
Ten thousand years of war from the Galra was just an exhale to these colossal giants that would live until the end of the universe, perhaps already having seen a thousand wars, and will see a thousand more. For them, it didn’t matter who won, who lost. Who died and who lived to tell their tale to their children and grandchildren and great grand children. 

Would Lance be rewarded that simple treasure of a family to call his own? A love to cherish and hold, a child to nurture and teach.  
The thought pulls his attention to Keith, focused and silent as he pilots them closer to the junkyard planet. Lance lets himself stare from the corner of his eye, taking solace in the quiet. It’s probably the longest the two of them have spent with one another without bickering or banter gone wrong.   
It’s calm and peaceful, and even without Blue beside him, Lance can feel himself relaxing into the moment. He doesn’t want to ruin it. 

_{Then stay quiet.}_

Lance sat up sharply, his body jolting painfully, like he had been electrocuted. The sudden movement shocked Keith in turn, Lance’s arm reaching out to grab him on instinct. He grabbed tighter, pulling at Keith’s arm, the ship’s tracking guidance with it.   
The pod lurched starboard. “Wow, what the—” Keith growled in surprise, manoeuvring the pod back on track, before fixing Lance with a questioning look. 

“What the quiznak was that about?” he hissed, a hand moving to rub at his arm, although his Paladin armour barred the way between his soothing touch and Lance’s tight grip that broke with the realisation that he was still holding on. 

“Sorry, I thought… I think I heard…” Lance trailed off, turning about in his seat, looking over his shoulder at the space in the back, but it was empty. It was only Keith and him. 

_So, who had spoken?_

“Heard what?” Keith asked, side-eyeing Lance as he readjusted their course again, slowing the engines as he too, turned to look in the back. “I guess it was nothing.”   
“Just a nightmare then.”   
“I don’t get nightmares,” Lance pouted, turning away from Keith with a huff.   
“I do.” 

Keith’s voice was so quiet, so soft-spoken that Lance almost missed it. He turned, staring, not sure if he had heard correctly. But from the blushing of the Red’s cheeks, Lance guessed that he had. 

When Lance said nothing, Keith turned to face the stare. “What,” he snapped, embarrassment clear in his demeanour. Lance held up his hands in surrender. “I was— I was just surprised you told me. I didn’t think you trusted me like that.”   
“What do you mean?” Keith scowled. “I mean, that is… well it is kind of a big deal to admit.”   
“Not really,” Keith shrugged, kicking the engines back into full, focus returned to piloting. “Well, yeah, to me it is. Because anything like that, you wouldn’t tell anyone, let alone me because you think I’d make fun of you or something.”   
“No you wouldn’t,” Keith says stubbornly. “You might dick about, but you’re serious when it matters and I know that personal shit like this won’t leave this shuttle.   
“And I _do_ trust you.” He added. It was Lance’s turn to blush, but before he could say anything, the Comms system beeped. 

Keith accepted the incoming transmission as the voices of Hunk, Coran and Pidge filled the tiny cabin. “How’s the pleasure cruise going,” the Gremlin asked, their usual smug grin clear in their voice. 

Lance let Keith communicate with the others, dropping back into his own headspace as the sight of _Torous_ appeared in the shuttle’s forward window. He thought of the voice, blocking out Keith’s deadpan tone, favouring his mind for thinking.   
He had heard voices before, sure, but they were always the sound of his own voice, deep inside himself, or a brush of a whisper in his ear. They spoke of dark, fearful thoughts drawn from the recesses of his mind he dare not tread.   
Only explored in the twilight hours of day, when sleep would drag him to the inner workings of his tired, worn out mind. And only then could he see the fragility behind every strained thoughts, every egotistic lie he put forth in a show of confidence and pride. 

Inside him, hidden behind the hurt, the pain, the _masks he wore to deter the questions and worry…_  
Only there remained his true self; his pure soul that lay curled, trapped in the cage Lance built around himself in hopes of protecting himself. 

The cage was his shelter. Bars built from the lies he has told himself and so many he’s told others a thousand times over. Over and over and _over and over,_ until the bars were unbreakable, un-breachable, unyielding... 

_“It’s no problem.”_

_“Don’t worry about it, I’m just feeling a little tired.”_

_“It’s okay, I promise.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

Bars that trapped his soul deep in the confines of his heart, twisted and darkened from the scars that every lie brings him. Every expectation thrust onto his already burdened shoulders, making his legs scream in agony as he tries to lift the weight of the world.   
_The universe,_ he thinks darkly, watching the planets that pass him by. 

Paladin of Voltron, Defender of the Universe. 

_{Disappointment to the Title and to his Team.}_

The thought sends a shock through Lance’s body. He stiffens, his legs locking painfully where instinct tells him to run. He knows he can’t, he’s trapped in the shuttle with no escape from the darkness that claws up his throat, the fear pulling his chest tight.   
_That’s not my voice. That’s not my—_

_{No, Lance. It’s my voice.} _

This _voice_ is different. It speaks with a taut tone, the words strangely melodic. Like rain on a tin roof, it laughs.   
The sound pulls Lance back to earth, back to the make-shift den in the untamed forests that settled around his home. It is Luis, his brother laughing, screaming as thunder crackled in the sky, lightening striking the sea as the wind whips it up in a torrent of fear and unbridled power.   
Its voice is gentle. It is the sound of water bubbling over rocks, the gentle caress of hair on his face as lips bend down and kiss his brow.   
Another memory resurfaces, and this time it is Maya, leading him over the rock pools as she holds his hand to stop him from falling. His face is hot; he’s been crying because he has already fallen and his knees are scraped up and bleeding. But she holds his hand, showing him where to step as she ventures first, her black hair pulled into a plait damp from their time in the surf. 

_{It’s me, Lance. Do not fear.}_

The voice speaks again. He hears his sisters, his brothers.   
Nostalgia is replaced by a petrifying fear. It fills Lance’s chest with ice, but the sweetness is a fearful comfort that lulls him into a peace that he can’t quite want gone. With the voice comes memories he thought lost, with them the happiness, sadness, fear and guilt of childhood. 

The _voice_ reminds him of Blue. But it is not her.   
It is something much darker. 

_{Do not be afraid, Osito. I am here for you.}_

The silk in _its_ voice doesn’t calm Lance, but only served to cement the panic that rises in his chest. The panic that has his throat tight, his breath hot as fire as he clamps down on this mouth, trying to control the fear that bubbles deep inside. 

_{Calm Osito,}_ the voice orders and Lance cannot fight the command.   
It chooses the name his Mother would call him, choosing the same words that she would use to comfort him when he needed that shoulder, or the tenderness of her touch.   
It is not his mother. It is not a memory of her, or any of them.

Luis never played in the den in the forest.   
Maya never took him to the rock pools by the beach. 

These memories were not Lance’s.   
It was not his voice. 

He hears it sometimes, his own voice spitting hate at him when he is weak or vulnerable.   
He hears it from inside his own head and knows that this is his own darkness twisting words into lies. He knows it his own securities devouring the happiness he feels until he is empty and cold inside, uncontrollable like a serpent writhing deep inside, coiling around his organs and squeezing until he can’t breathe… 

But this? _This voice is not his._

It does not come from inside, but instead _beside_ him; whisperings on his shoulder, murmurs that brush against his ears, and only his.   
Keith can’t hear. He remains caught in conversation between the rest of the team, oblivious to the Demon in their midst. 

There is familiarity from this monster. It retains differences to the voices Lance would hear back on Earth; the condescending drawl that would run unwanted commentary as he went about his life, refusing to buckle to the hate, the self-deprecation that no matter what he did wasn’t good enough, that _he_ wasn’t good enough, that he was a burden, a waste of space, a substitute for a better son, filling the shoes while they were too busy to send him away—

Lance pressed his hands to his forehead, trying to control the thoughts, the memories of the words that filled his nightmares, every waking moment, the day that he finally buckled as he was pushed towards the blade, the bridge, the cliff-side views where Lance had imagined his own body falling, falling, _falling,_ crashing to the rocks, laid bloody and broken and _free._

This voice was different, but familiar all the same.   
Like a memory disjointed and unattached, resurfaced from a photo, a word, a sound, but the angle is all wrong to the one Lance holds in his mind. Like he’s looking at himself from above as a spectator to his own past, and not out of his own eyes. _{You’re wrong. I’ve always been here.}_

Lance wants to claw at his head, scratch at his ears to stop him from hearing the voice.   
But it won’t work. He had done it the first time he heard them. 

The disjunctive sound of his own voice, but _not._ The one that plagued him throughout his childhood, loud and louder still when blood bloomed on his arms in hopes to drown out the voice with pain.   
The same voice that dragged along behind him in his depression, suffocated him when things got too much and he had swum out to sea, hoping never to return—

“Lance? Are you listening?” 

It is a life line. Stronger than his own thread of hope, already frayed and worn from time of use.   
Lance grasps at it, leaving the monster to grumble and grouse as he leaves it, deep inside the shadows of his mind. 

“Huh, what? Sorry, I must’ve dozed off,” Lance said. He turns to Keith, flashing a small smiled, hoping it’s normal. The small nod of the head shows Keith’s not concerned.   
_{But why would he be?}_  
Lance ignores the voice. “So did they tell you what was needed?” he asks instead, eyes on the transmission light on the module. It’s off, although for how long, he doesn’t know. He wasn’t listening. He was losing his mind. 

“Yeah, Pidge and Hunk sent us scans of the equipment. They’re working on a programme that we can use to scan the stuff on _Torous_ to make hunting for parts easier. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference between a phaser emitter and phaser assimilator.”  
“A phaser emitter is the focus point for warp core energy, and helps direct the concentrated energy into kinetic and heat fusion as part of the main engine system, or redirected as weaponry. An assimilator dissipates collected energy in equal, controlled amounts. They’re used in the warp core and engines as emergency shut-down systems or to stop them from overheating or exploding when they’re turned on.”

Keith blinked owlishly.   
Lance ducked his head. “Ah, sorry. I guess I spent a lot of time watching Star Trek.” 

Keith didn’t say anything after that, but he kept taking sidelong looks at the Blue, who had returned to watch the passing stars and _not_ think.   
He doesn’t see Keith side eyeing him, sending restless fingers carding through his hair as his mind tumbles the thoughts that Lance is _unsettled_ by something. There’s always something different about the Cuban when the pair are together, without the prying ears or eyes of the team.   
He’s annoyed by the Green and Gold’s interruption, but how were they to know the boy’s weren’t fighting, and instead making genuine ground on the road to understanding one another better. 

And Keith did want to understand Lance. He had surmised him wrong when they first met, knowing his name only from jokes and rumours around the Garrison; too busy to listen intently, preferring instead his studies and the progress, making Shiro proud as he excelled quicker than his peers. 

Lance’s silence isn’t anything new between the two of them, yet there’s been no argument to start the sulking. To say Keith is concerned isn’t incorrect, but he refused to admit the worry brought from silence. He knew Lance had been faking sleep for the majority of the journey, preferring that to keep up idle chatter that would usually have Keith driving nails into his head. He would never admit that, the trip was actually boring without the Blue’s crappy jokes and incessant laughter. Okay, Keith definitely found the silence disconcerting.   
Lance was never quiet unless he was sleeping or eating and even then, it would only be whilst he swallowed the food goo messily. This silence had been unexpected.   
Instead, he had readied himself for random outbursts, vocal fighting and had prepared himself a lecture about Lance’s screw ups that mainly revolved around his lack of effort in the sparring ring, and the cargo explosion. He wanted Lance’s side and a chance to apologise for his own hand in silencing the Comms and leaving Lance alone with the enemy.   
Maybe Shiro’s scoldings had been stricter than Keith had assumed and finally, his ‘rival’ had taken notice.   
But the silence? The _un-Lance-ness_ that surrounds him?   
_It is anything but welcome._

It isn’t long before they’re entering _Torus’s_ atmosphere and the boys minds are pulled back on track of landing the ship. 

Keith instructs Lance to help him as the fly through the atmosphere, searching the desolate planet for a place to land. “I thought it was uninhabited,” Lance said, punching in the instructions for cloaking. Just to get them to the surface, Keith had explained when Lance asked _why._  
“Of sentient life, yes. But that doesn’t mean we’ll be the only ones scavenging here. Why do you think we didn’t bring the Lions? It’s not like we can defend them while we go hunting, and we know the particle barrier will do nothing if anyone wants to steal them.”   
“Kidnap you mean.” Keith fixed Lance with a look. Lance just shrugged. “They’re alive aren’t they? If so, it’s kidnap, not steal.”   
“You’re so weird.”   
“Well you’re weirder.” 

The schoolyard bickering was nipped in the bud as the shuttle drew closer to the surface. There is no flat earth to touch down upon, only warped metal and broken things. Wings of giant spaceships are their best bet and Keith spies the hull of an upside down Galran cruiser on top of a stacked tower of junk.  
“Remind me to ransack its memory core. We might be able to pull information for Pidge to scour,” Keith said as they landed on the wing, the metal groaning loudly as the spaceship’s weight shifted. Keith and Lance remained in the shuttle as the spaceship began to tilt, Keith preparing to take off again in case the entire mountain collapsed. It didn’t however, leaving the Paladins freedom to climb out. 

The air of _Torous_ was breathable, but with near constant sand being blown in their faces, it was better to keep their helmets on, visors drawn. This didn’t help in the hot climate, where Lance just wanted to feel a fresh breeze on his face. He decided against as such when he was met with the biting sting of sand instead. 

“This place is bigger than I thought,” Keith said as he stood on the nose of the Galra ship, looking out at the expanse of orange and black; twisting metal towers glinting in the setting sun.   
A full day, from dawn to dusk, upon _Torous_ was comparable to the equivalent of three vargas, so there was little point in waiting out the night in the shuttle pod. They had lights on their visors and constant contact through the Comms. It would be quicker just to keep working in the dark. 

“Are we searching together, or splitting up?” Keith asked when Lance hadn’t responded. He was crouched on their landing pad’s wing, looking down to the surface. Or as much of the surface he could see that wasn’t covered in broken spaceships, old junk and orange sand.   
“It will be quicker if we split up. Unless you want me to hold your hand,” Lance smiled, teasing Keith in their privacy. The Red rolled his eyes. 

“Fine, we’ll do this separately. Hunk says that he needs recalcitrant knuts; as many as we can find. And piston modules, but he said something about the thermal makeup compared to a _“kikeke aku?”_  
“Knock-off,” Lance translates, knowing Hunk’s irritation at cheap imitation of engineer work had his dialect slip up. _{It’s good to know you’re useful for some things.}_  
Lance grabbed the side of his head, but the whispering stopped as quick as it started. His heart pounded in his chest, but no matter how vulnerable Lance felt, his mind wasn’t invaded. 

Looking up, he was thankful that Keith hadn’t noticed the glitch; already back in the shuttle pod. He drummed the keys on the pilot’s side of the module, the display lighting up from the terminal Pidge had logged for him. It’s got the remaining machinery listed and all the little diagrams.   
Keith waved Lance over. “Pidge finished the programme. Come grab it before you go,” he said, plugging his wrist cache into the module and dragging one of Pidge’s files onto the popup menu. Lance copied. 

Pidge’s _‘identification programme’_ whirred to life, the information relaying immediately to his helmet’s HUD. Scanning the nearest metal tower, little lines began outlining the shapes in weird assortments, comparing it to the shapes of their desired equipment. Nothing they wanted stood out from the first, nor the second, and Lance was too far away from the third. 

“We’ll keep the Comms on, so don’t wander too far,” Keith instructs, unconsciously imitating Shiro in the way he spoke. His voice is sharp, words to the point and it sends a trickle of irritation over Lance’s skin. He has to swallow a spiteful _“yes sir,”_ instead nodding with a grin, walking backwards to the edge of the ship.   
“Don’t worry Mullet. We’ll get the stuff and be back on the ship in a couple hours. Just try and find something before I find it all first.”   
Keith rolls his eyes again. “Let’s just stay focused, okay? The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get back.” Lance’s grin widened. “Still, you got to keep up Keith or I’ll leave you behind.” His foot stopped on the edge of the ship, teetering over the drop. 

Keith noticed, his voice twisting into a shout, “Lance watch out!”   
But Lance just grinned and stepped off the edge, laughing at the look on Keith’s face as he plummeted to the surface. Mid-fall he turned, deployed his jet pack and slowed his decent, leaning into the motion to take himself over the warped metal floor of _Torous_ until he was a substantial distance away from the giant tower. 

“Bastard,” Keith hissed, his voice crackling over the Comms. Lance just laughed. “C’mon Keithy-boy. You’ve got to have fun while you’re here. Loosen up a bit.”   
Lance dropped himself to the ground, turning back to wave at Keith who stood like an ant on top of the mangled tower. “You think you’re so funny don’t you. Just grow up Lance; we’re not here to play games.” _And Mullet was back to his normal grumpy self._

“Yes yes I apologise your majesty,” Lance said with perhaps a little too much sarcasm. Keith cursed him again, but Lance was already walking away, his back to the sunrise and the leaning tower of Junk.   
_{Looks like he’s fitting into his role nicely,}_ came the dark and unwanted voice. Lance bit his lip to focus on the pain rather than the voice but the monster just purred in his ear. _{Don’t be like that Lance.}_  
Lance said nothing. 

He could feel the monster beside him, sapping his energy, his happiness.   
It is darkness in his peripheral that was nothing more than shadows when he turned his head to see with clarity.   
But the monster was still there. It laughed and it purred, settling itself around Lance’s shoulders. He shuddered at the contact, feeling its leathery tail wrap around his neck uncomfortably so. A hand reached up to pull at the tail, but the second Lance did, the monster wrapped tighter. A warning. 

So Lance let the monster stay.   
He pushed his focus away from the heaviness, towards his task and the reason he was on _Torous_ in the first place. Pidge’s scans worked overtime as he walked, outlining weird and wonderful shapes. He located some knuts like Hunk requested, filling the sack that he’d brought with him, slung over his shoulder as he walked.

Even when he returned to the shuttle, dragging behind him a salvage tarp, used to transport more gear then he could carry, Keith doesn’t mention the creature that sits on Lance’s shoulder. The monster teases Keith for it, dropping down to run around him, sniff inquisitively as he sneers. _{And this is the boy you like? Weak}_ it spat angrily, darting back to Lance’s side. “Shut up,” Lance hissed at him.   
“Shut up yourself,” Keith bit back, Lance having interrupted whatever he was talking about. “As I was saying, it’s just the components left for the phasal shift augment and we’re all set,” he continued, glossing over whatever argument Lance was supposedly trying to start, tapping on his helmet to get rid of the listed gear as he scanned the new pile. 

He had already ransacked the Galra ship and had dropped the pod down at the base of the tower after having cleared a flat space so that they didn’t have to keep boosting up to the top of the pile. At least the purple ship was a decent landmark for them to return to. 

“Keep it quiet,” Keith orders, when Lance starts throwing the broken junk into the back compartment, ignoring the clattering _thunks_ they make.   
Lance raises and eyebrow, questioning the similarity of Shiro’s voice he heard. The monster laughs. _{Well well, Shiro’s la mano derecha is finally filling the boots.}_ A scowl is drawn from the words, and Keith mistakes it for heedlessness and disrespect. He thinks Lance is fighting him, and returns the attitude without second thought. “Whatever Lance. Just go find the augment already so we can get out of here.” He doesn’t wait for the expected backchat, closing the back of the containment unit of the shuttle, making a point of keeping his back to Lance. 

The Blue Paladin doesn’t bother explaining the misunderstanding. What lie can he say anyway?   
With no other choice he wanders off again, letting Pidge’s programme scan for remaining module whilst he kicks at the dusty soil, weaving between the piles of abandoned machinery. He isn’t really focused on where he’s going as he weaves between the mounds until he’s climbing mountains, digging between caverns and crawling through empty shells of crashed spaceships. 

He is alone again, but not.  
The monster walks beside him, alternating between hitching a ride and showing Lance how to traverse the unstable landscape. Lance watches in confusion, uncertain as he accepts the help as they trudged along; creating their own pathway across _Torus’s_ abandoned surface. 

He isn’t sure what to think, but this creature doesn’t seem to want to hurt him. In fact, it just seems to want to talk, or bask in Lance’s company; a creation in his mind that enjoys the freedom of Lance finally acknowledging him.   
As Lance thinks this, the creature turns back to face him, lips pulled back to reveal a smile. _{Found it.}_

Pidge’s scanning system bleep at him as it outlines the basic component of a deflector generator, which was needed after the Pirates had blown up the Trigamon’s engines and the shield generator was one such installation that needed replacing.   
The problem was, this was still connected to its old ship; an old Bo’ Hunt transport ship, identical to Nyma’s.   
The sight of the ship brought mixed emotions, but it was the component needed. But he was going to need Keith to help him get it back to the shuttle. 

“Hey Keith, I found us a shield generator,” he said, using his booster pack to jump up the twelve feet towards the broken hull of the ship. They’d probably just rip the thing right from its roots, rather than trying to power up the ship and uncouple it from the main system. 

Keith didn’t answer. “Keith? Keith you there?”   
Lance felt himself frown, ignoring the monster who dropped from his neck. _{Oh dear. He can’t hear you,}_ it smiled, jumping up into the ship to look down at Lance. _{He has gone you know.}_ Lance ignored it, turning to face away, searching for the tall tower on which sat the shuttle. He couldn’t see it. 

“Keith, if you’re there answer me,” he growled, fear spiking in his chest. It came out bitter and angry, memories of being abandoned on the ship as clear as the setting sun in his mind. _{He won’t answer,}_ the monster said, it’s tail flicking, smooth face looking down at the Blue Paladin who refused to accept it. “If you’ve silenced me again, Keith I swear to god I’m going to cut off that Mullet and feed it to the Weblum,” he growled, voice pitching from fear.   
Instead he tapped at his wrist cache, searching for Keith’s signature on his geological map. Nothing. No red blips for the Paladin, no white blips to indicate the location of the shuttle. 

Lance stared, eyes wide. “He’s…. he’s _gone.”_

_{He left you. Of course he did}_ the monster said matter-of-factly. Lance turned to face it, anger on his face, raising a fist. “He didn’t! It’s just…. It’s just….” Lance scrambled for a reason, eyes scanning the horizon, hoping to see the glint of purple of the Galra ship, the white spark of the Altean shuttle.   
“The towers! They’re messing with the transmission system,” he said suddenly, looking up to the twisting metal that would interfere with the signal, making it hard for Keith and Lance’s transmissions to find one another. 

_{If you’re sure—}_  
“I _am_ sure,” Lance said, turning back to the monster with anger. He was able to hide his fear of the creature that he could see; the apparition from his own head, his mind finally snapping from the weight of everything. 

“They wouldn’t leave me. They wouldn’t abandon me here.”   
_{Wouldn’t they?}_  
Lance stutters at that, voice catching in his throat. The monster watches him, its tail swinging back and forth, head cocked to the side, child-like and disjointed that makes Lance shudder. No, it is the wind, coming in from the North. Lance looked to the way of the wind, seeing the cloud of orange whipped up into their air, coming this way.   
_[Sandstorm Imminent]_ flashed on his visor HUD. The broken hull of the Bo’ Hunt ship was a good place as any to take shelter, and although Lance wanted nothing more than space away from his inner demons, he followed the black monster into the crawl space to wait out the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, Lance is starting to see things…


	3. A Want To Be Not Be Abandoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is alone on Torous, with only his mind for company. But he’s not alone. Not really.

**System:** Ruse Minor  
**Location:** Torous

_Torous_ was once a thriving planet, but over the years it had become the dumping ground for unwanted materials and broken things.  
The vegetation and life that had once covered in the planet in greens and blues and beautiful reds had been destroyed from an off-world battle with the Galra, long time past. The losing soldiers lay to rest under the wreckage of their skeleton ships; sentinels even in death. 

Their ships remained too, laid beneath the wreckage of other people’s mistakes.  
Some of it is eaten by the planet in rivers of molten lava that lay deep below in narrow caverns that flow, hot and powerful underneath the skin of unwanted things. Yet still, the mountains of debris pile higher and higher until they’re protruding from the weakened atmosphere, reaching up like burnt fingers looking to escape the prison of the dying world.

The rubbish stands stacked together, pipes of metal and glass twisting up like crystal trees, glowing from the light of the sun. Berms run like shelves between the levels of junk; roads for scroungers to traverse from one trash heap to another searching for parts to salvage, or Kokachet to hunt. 

The weather carved the metal work into strange structures, the wind keening through rusted holes to bring noise to the otherwise silent land. 

Krell made this place their home; crawling through the twisting mounds, digging deep for ores to feast upon, scraping and fighting as garbage ships unload more onto the growing planet. They keep to themselves and are relatively harmless as long as Lance doesn’t disturb them, but the constant rattling and tuckering of the decapods crustaceans has Lance’s back on edge. The Blue Paladin hasn’t let his guard down as per Shiro’s instructions. _“You might not be the only ones foraging for parts so keep your eyes peeled.”_  
He shoots dark glares over his shoulders as noise rattles inside the Bo’ Hunt ship, his patience wearing thin as the sandstorm continues. 

A _Torous_ day has already passed, and although that only means three hours, give or take, it’s three more hours that Lance wanted to spend on this dusty planet. He’s been trapped by the sandstorm for too long, left with only his thoughts as company as he stared out at the darkness. 

The monster is still with him, its mumbling digging deeper into the fears that he has been left behind. But it’s not true, he knows. The crackle of his Comms isn’t consistent, but he’s sure that it is Keith trying to call out for him. He’d take the Red’s lecture about getting lost if it meant that they’d find one another soon. Although, watching the sandstorm, Lance wonders how long he’s got left to wait.  
He’s hungry and he’s thirsty; the heat of the day exhausting him more than he wished to admit. The boy’s rations remained on the shuttle, but that did Lance no good in his hidey-hole. 

_{So what are you going to do if he leaves without you?}_ the monster asked, stretching out, cat-like in the way it’s body twists on itself, three big yellow eyes blinking down on Lance where it lays in the hammock of wiring above his head. 

At first, Lance has thought it a wild creature, a Kokachet or perhaps Krell; its body having shifted from the small stature of before. But when it spoke, he recognised the dulcet song of the monster inside his head. 

He can see it now, as he looks up to the swaying motion of the creature’s tail, flicking back and forth, much like a cat that watches a mouse as if prepares to strike. 

Its skin is jet black, black fur flecked with orange and white that reaches from the top of its head to the base of its tail. Each paw ends in three hooked claws that find purchase in the metal of the hull’s ceiling, the creature pulling itself up, long feathered ears flicking back and forth, listening to the noise of rummaging beneath the metal work. 

Curiosity draws it from its nook, jumping from hammock to the floor near Lance’s feet soundlessly, sniffing towards the darkness and shifting sand. It’s yellow eye blink in the darkness, the flattened head resembling a lizard rounded snout pushed into the corner. It scares cretins from their dwelling, the creature too slow to catch any of them as they scurry away.  
Lance can’t help but laugh at the sight of the creature twisted on its self, causing it to look at him, his head turning, turning round much like owls, its ears batting away the falling sand that it has caused from its hunting. 

It grins. 

_{The storm is letting up}_ he nods to the hole in the Bo’ Hunt hull, and the thinning sand that allows Lance to see the metal work beyond, and not just the constant wall of sand that had them trapped here. _{Not long until we get out of here,}_ it says stalking closer, jumping over Lance’s legs to sit at the doorway, looking out with cocked ears and wide yellow eyes. 

Lance joins it, legs dangling out the ship, drawing up his map again. It flickers on and off, the display coded with glitches, but there is the little Red dot he’d been hoping to see, and Lance sighs into the motion of resting his back against the ship’s hull.  
“Keith, can you hear me?” he asks, ignoring the fear of receiving a reply. But then Comms crackle back, the odd sound of a voice calling to him and Lance lets a face-splitting grin sit on his features. “Oh thank god. If you can hear me, I’ve found a shield generator, but I’m still waiting out the sandstorm. We’re going to need the shuttle to haul it but you probably shouldn’t fly it until the storms blown over. It won’t be long now.” He hears the crackling again, sighing as he hears clippets of his name, but nothing else. 

“I hope you can hear me,” he says, too much emotion dripping into his words, chest tightening as fear trickle under his skin again. He fights it, he does but it’s hard.  
Eyes find the creature, his mind catching on the reality that his mind had imagined him. _Does that mean he’s imagined Keith? That Keith has gone and he is alone?_  
It’s a painful thought and Lance can’t shake it, no matter how much he tries to distract himself. 

The sun is setting again, Lance lost to the boredom of just watching. He shifts his body, lying against the metal work as he waits for Keith to come and find him.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The cruel sun beat down, the eye of fire unblinking as it hangs in the red sky, not even a wisp of a cloud to act as shade.  
Lance has abandoned the ¬Bo’ Hunt ship, in favour of regaining transmission with Keith. Rather than heading back for the ship and most likely getting even more turned around, he took to scrambling up a nearby metal structure, venturing to the West side where the metal remained craggy and sloping compared to the wind smoothed steepness of the East.

 _{There’s a lot of good material here}_ the creature called, diving in and out of the inner tunnels of the stack. “Maybe we can bring Pidge and Hunk back here so they can search themselves,” Lance suggests, watching the creature clamber up the stack with deftness, following at a restrained pace. He was craving water, and out in the heat of the midday sun without the shelter of shade, it was getting harder to breathe with the dryness of his lips and throat. The nape of his neck is damp, his body sweltering in his armour. He wants to throw off his helmet and inhale the air, but doing so would burn his lungs from the sheer heat.  
His back aches lightly, but the pain of the burn is nowhere to be found in his growing list of discomfort, even with the use of one _Eyre_ vial. The injury rests somewhere in the back of his mind, forgotten, along with the incident that brought it about. 

The creature slowed for him, returning to the task of showing Lance the easiest path up stacks of familiar scrap, guiding Lance towards the summit. Occasionally it flicks its head back to make sure Lance is following him, trying to conceal its roll of eyes every time Lance called out for Keith, hoping the height would overlook the metal tower’s disruptions. 

Their pace slowed to accommodate for the constant rising of heat, but still they push on side by side, kicking away loose debris to make the trek easier, scaring away the cretins that are brave enough to investigate the _who_ that has wandered into their territory. 

“Do you think he’s even noticed I’m missing,” Lance said aloud after calling out for Keith again.  
They’ve reached the summit now, and with nothing higher to climb, Lance is beginning to feel doubtful that the towers are the cause of the interference. He checks his map again, watching the glitches that shake the display, disjointing the image of just his little blip in the centre of the map. 

_Had Keith really left him?  
Was the crackling just an illusion too? _

Lance felt sick in the pit of his stomach. His mouth watered without warning, but the boy swallowed thickly, focusing on the horizon for the purple of Galra ship. Keith wouldn’t leave him, he knew that. It was just a pathetic fear of his own.  
Keith was a Paladin, like him. A team mate. A friend. 

_Right?_

_{I think they’d notice,}_ the creature says slowly, turning around to face Lance, ears cocked upright. _{They wouldn’t be able to pilot Blue without you.}_  
“Allura can pilot Blue if I’m not there,” Lance snapped. Then threw his hand over his mouth, wide eyes turned to his companion. It blinked back at him, emotionlessly. 

Lance swallowed, his voice quiet. _“Keith?”_  
But there was no crackled reply. No noise of any sort in fact. 

_Was he alone?_

_{You’re not alone Lance, I’m here}_ it says, purring as it approaches, tilting its head. “You’re not helping.”  
_{Perhaps not. But at least you’re not alone.}_

And the moment that it says so, Lance realises that the creature is right. And, somehow, he’s comforted by the idea. 

Back at the Castle, Lance is always surrounded by the Paladins: with them when they’re eating, hanging out them during down-time or with them when they’re all training together. He’s almost always with someone, preferring not to be on his own. But of course, he can’t avoid the inevitable when Coran, ever-kind, ever-caring Coran alerts the young Paladins of their sleep cycles and ushers them to their beds. 

But even when Lance is surrounded by his friends, his _family,_ he is lonely. He might hide it, behind his wit and his charm that he wears as a second skin: the very weapons that destroy him. They are armour and they are blade; a double edged sword as he stands in the presence of his friends and spills out lie after lie after lie. 

_“It’s no problem.”_

_“Don’t worry about it, I’m just feeling a little tired.”_

_“It’s okay, I promise.”_

_“I’m fine.”_

_I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am fine. I am—_

_Lonely._

_Always lonely,_ even when he’s not alone: sandwiched by Hunk’s arms, or being crushed under Pidge’s random dog pile, Lance has always struggled to feel the comfort of being with them. He’s always got his guard up, always watching himself so that nothing falls between the cracks of his façade, nothing breaking the perfection of his bravado, his ignorant smirk every unwanted flirt or pun that has his team rolling their eyes or ripping their hair out. 

But somehow, with this creature, with this _thing_ beside him, Lance doesn’t feel lonely.  
He’s allowed to be himself, the most “me” he’s been since the Garrison, heck, since back with his own damn family and not be ridiculed for the sadness, the self-doubt the fears that fill his soul.  
He doesn’t have to wear the masks, doesn’t have to wear himself out with the fake smiles, the fake energy, the lies that he wove around himself to be the happy-go-lucky, confident Blue Paladin they all thinks he is. 

_{It’s because I understand Osito.}_ The creature says, taking another step closer. _{I understand because I’m a part of you Lance. I’ll always be here, I’ll always have your back.}_

_{I’m here for you Osito.}_

_{I’ll always be here for you.} _

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The decent is quicker than the climb. Lance uses his booster pack, not having to worry about landing too heavily and bringing the tower down upon himself now that he knows the entire things is quite stable.  
He’s not thinking too hard. In fact, he’s practically turned his brain off as he jumps down the mountainside, cursing when he slips and tumbles, just managing to catch himself before he rolls all the way down. His face is hot and his eyes sting but he’s not thinking about the silence that stands between him and Keith. Between him and Voltron.

 _{They haven’t forgotten you Lance}_  
“No? If they haven’t forgotten me, then how do you explain the silence? Neither Keith or the ship is showing up on the scanner and I’ve just climbed the bloody junk pile to see if it was the towers, and guess what. Still no Keith. Still no ship,” Lance growled, turning to face the creature. “He’s gone. He fucked off and left me here. He’s gone and he’s not coming back…” His voice cracked on the last few words, unable to stop the pain in his chest from stealing his breath. 

“What did I do wrong?” he whispered. Knees weak, body heavy, Lance sat himself on a protruding piece of metal, ignoring the heat that rained down on him from above. _{They just don’t understand}_ the creature said, sitting in front of Lance, it’s paws on the boy’s knees as he leaned up close to him. _{They only focus on the mistakes, the misunderstandings. They don’t understand you Lance, that you’re just trying your best. They can’t ask anymore of you than that.}_  
“They can’t ask anymore because they’ve abandoned me,” Lance whispered, teary eyes fixed with his demon’s three yellow ones. 

Lance clings to the companionship, fighting his thoughts, dredged up from the boxes he has locked them in.

“I mean… they can’t have,” he argues, sniffing, dragging off his helmet to wipe at his tears. The heat hurts his nose, the sand stinging his face but he ignores it. “I’m a Paladin. They can’t just chuck me off the team because… because…” but the words fade and he’s frowning even before their sound has died on his lips.  
_{Because of the mistake you made. Because you fight with Keith all the time, because you can’t keep up with him and Shiro in training,}_ the creature says, dragging up the insecurities Lance has never been able to rid himself of, ever since first finding out about the Paladins of Voltron. He’d felt privileged, practically a god among men when he found out the he was one of five Paladins prophesised to protect the Universe from a threat that spanned the cosmos. There were thousands, millions, _billions_ of aliens that Blue could of chose and she chose _him._

_But did she?_  
That was his fear. 

Did she truly chose him, or was he the vessel used to transport the real Paladins to their Lions. _Place holder,_ his mind offers, but he bats the thought away before it can take permanent root in his insecurities. And again, he speaks. “I am needed. They can’t just abandon me.” But the confidence is empty and he knows himself to be lying. 

Still, it is baseless hope that has him standing once more.  
In the distance he hears the sound of propulsion engines, the echoing crash of towers fallings, loud and powerful enough to make the ground shake. _Keith?_

Lance rams his helmet back on his head and is calling out for Keith again. A crackle answers and Lance latches on, turning his body as if he could hear Keith.  
“Keith, Keith where are you?”

“ck…-ance? –ce are you– there?”  
“Keith! I can hear you, where are you?” Lance shouted, already running, jumping over a thin cavern of molten rock flowing far beneath him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but he’s running, laughing as the sounds of Keith’s voice find clarity through the white noise. 

“Lance there’s— …keep run—… higher—”  
“Keith you’re breaking up buddy, speak slower.”  
“—they’ve found you!” 

Lance hears the words, but he’s already falling. There’s something tight around his ankle, a voice yelling out to him as his own cry of shock fills the air. The _thing_ around his ankle holds firm, pulling Lance backwards. He turns to see, staring at the thick luminous coil of red around his leg, watching it pulsate before suddenly, he’s being lifted into the air, hung upside down. 

Emerging from the holes in the crumpled metal are cloaked things, wielding various weapons, all pointed at Lance as he remains suspended. Instinct kicks in and he’s yelling out for Keith again. 

“Keith? Keith!” Static replies, before the crackled voice of the Red Paladin. “Lance?”  
“Help,” is all the boy can squeak before a pole is shoved into his space on the back of his neck and he’s screaming from the electricity that pulses there. He can’t fight the black spots that grow in his vision, feeling his body hit the ground just before unconsciousness takes him.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Lance?”

The Comms crackled, but there was nothing else on the transmission feed.  
Keith shrugged to himself, dragging the polymer sheet and the stacks of coupling braces that Hunk had asked for. He’d been sceptical that Lance and Keith would find any, but Keith found six and he was feeling pretty pleased with himself. 

They hadn’t been looking for too long, and the only disturbances were the odd Cretin digging through the rubble. Luckily none of the underworld creatures had sensed Keith’s foraging and the Kokachet and Krell remained evasive to the Paladins. Well, to Keith at least.  
Lance hadn’t said anything all morning, so he didn’t know if he’d have a run in with the creatures, but the Red wasn’t about to dive into conversation and ask about it when it wasn’t needed. Or not wanted. 

Lance was being… _odd._ Whereas he is usually loud, talkative and hard to shut up, Keith had been quite surprised at the silence of the journey to _Torous._ Whether it was the company, Lance’s tiredness or the after effects of another lecture from Space Dad, the Blue Paladin had remained sullen and kept himself to himself on the short flight that saw them to the surface of the scrap-world.  
But then, even after that, the Comms remained oddly quiet, even without Lance’s incessant humming of his favourite songs. 

Keith had assumed it to be Lance pouting after their slight rift about noise. Keith, worried that they weren’t the only scavengers on _Torous,_ and didn’t want to attract attention when a fire-fight with territorial burrowing creatures could easily be avoided.  
But he’d been too harsh on Lance, he feared, too soon after Shiro’s own little lecture, undoubtedly about his and Lance’s spat back before everything went wrong on the Cargo-ship.  
But it didn’t, not really, and the lectures were unneeded but performed anyway. 

The silence that followed wasn’t anything he thought was something to be concerned over. Until he saw the approaching sandstorm.  
His suit was what had given him an early warning, hurrying him to return to the shuttle or find shelter as he looted another dropped ship that had been buried under debris. Deciding he was close enough to the shuttle, Keith radioed into Lance as he headed back, boosting himself with his jump pack to close the distance quicker. 

“Lance? C’mon the storms coming and we can head back to the ship before it strikes.” He knew a sandstorm could last for days, but they only had rations for an extended afternoon.  
“I know we don’t have everything but there’s not much room left on the shuttle. Besides, we can’t do anything in the storm and it’ll save us time if we head back now.”  
No reply. 

“Lance?”  
The Comms crackled but no words came back to him. Irritation was the first emotion to spike. “Seriously? Are you blanking me? Because that’s real mature Lance.”  
_Nothing._

Keith cursed to himself, more annoyed than worried as the sandstorm descended and he was forced to close the pod and wait inside as sand and lighter debris was whipped up in a torrent of angry hot winds, battering the shuttle where it remained, waiting for the missing Blue Paladin.  
“You know, just to spite you I should eat your food,” Keith said into the Comms, looking to the supply bag on Lance’s seat. Again, no reply. 

Keith didn’t really feel like eating, but now he’s mentioned food his stomach decided he is hungry. He manages to stave off for three Varga until his own food cubes (strawberry and cake flavour – _thanks Hunk)_ are devoured, as well as a bottle of water. 

Keith tried to keep his mind from wandering; focusing on other things than the hope that Lance found himself shelter before the storm struck. His attention focused on the out-of-commission communication system, and tried to figure out if it was his tampering that had the shuttle’s scanning capabilities glitching and jumping about on the display module.  
He waited and waited, occasional patching through to static on the communication systems with baited sentences, trying to get a rise out of the Blue in case it was just sulking silence, but there was little Keith could do in terms of searching until the storm passed, continuing to fiddle with the module in his boredom. 

There was a moment when Keith’s display held out long enough to locate a small Blue circle, with a radius of fifteen _Decca-Lines,_ lighting up the scanned map approximately six thousand _Decca-Lines_ from the shuttles location. Too far for low altitude flying in the storm’s high winds, too far for Keith to navigate on the ground without a permanent lock on the boy’s location.  
So the waiting game it was. 

Keith missed Red and her capabilities, knowing that either she or blue wouldn’t think twice of the measly sandstorm. He could almost hear her purr in his ear for the confidence, but his mind was empty of her touch. Empty and distracted by the little Blue blip that flashed in clarity at the dying winds. 

But even then, and even after the storm had completely fizzled, Lance refused to radio back.  
That squirming feeling of irritation has seeped into guilt and worry; Keith trying to keep the fear out of his words as he calls out again, using the Shuttle’s boosted signal system to try and get a track down Lance. He tried contacting the castle too, but that too, failed. Odd.  
And worrying. 

Deciding to get closer and hopefully pick up a better signal, Keith cleaned out the engines of sand, ignoring the niggle in the back of his mind. It reminded him of Red; her unsettled presence pacing in his mind, but no matter how much he focused, he couldn’t figure out what the nervous was. 

It happened when he returned to the shuttle. Crackling in his ear piece. _Lance._

The Red called out, but he only got broken words. _“—I’m a paladin—... me–... —the team—… because—”_ He wasn’t talking to Keith. _To someone else?_  
“Lance? Can you hear me?” Keith called, feeling embarrassment at his worrying. But, anyone would. New planet, no communication, missing teammate. He told himself it was normal. He _almost_ convinced himself. 

But Lance didn’t respond. His attention was focused somewhere else. Or on someone else as he continued to talk, his voice tight. _“I am need—… can’t just—”_  
Lance sounded off, his voice small and too much emotion that Keith couldn’t figure out… _wait. Who was he talking to?_

Keith jumped back in the pod, using the shuttles scanners to do a wider search, not focusing on the Blue Paladin’s unique signature.  
But then came the flashing lights of several grey indicators very close to the Blue. Too close for Keith’s liking.  
_[Unidentified Signatures]_ the separate indicators read, spiking Keith’s worry as the pod’s system glitched again and everything fell into place. 

It wasn’t a glitch.  
_It was a jamming signal._

“Lance! Lance can you hear me?” he yelled, realising the danger. “Lance, you’re in danger!” 

Keith punched the engines into overdrive, the ship scraping the floor, moving before the thrusters had fully taken the ship off the ground. It was slow due to the extra weight of supplies, the controls slow in responding as Keith hit Pidge’s nitro boost upgrade without thinking twice.  
His eyes were drawing the map in front of Lance’s empty seat, the Blue blip slowly moving in his direction, the grey shadows flickering as they moved, much faster, swarming closer to the Blue’s position. “Lance get out of there— _oh fuck!”_  
His gaze, drawn for too long, didn’t assess the ascent, the shuttle aiming straight for a scrap tower. Keith pulled on the controls, swearing, cursing, yelling in desperation as he pulled the shuttle almost vertically, listening to the deafening sound of scraping metal as the hull dragged painfully over the warped metal. 

“Fuck, FUCK!” he cursed to himself, ignoring the thunderous crash as the tower fell behind him. 

“Lance, Lance are you there? _Lance!_ C’mon Lance just answer please!”  
“Keith!” 

It’s a godsend. Keith can’t help but grin, relief at the sound of Lance’s voice resonating with the same feeling. He must’ve been worried about the distance too.  
The Red throws his eyes to the map, lining up the angle for interception, heart pulling as Lance’s indicator picked up its pace. The greys moved too. 

“Lance there’s someone following you,” Keith said, trying to keep his voice calm to stop Lance panicking. “Keep running, I’m coming. Try and get higher. I’m coming now.”  
But the jamming signal, no matter how weak, was still in effect. “—eith you’re b–… –ing up buddy, speak slower.” 

And there, on his screen is what Keith doesn’t want to see. He can see Lance’s indicator, but his stomach drops at the sight of seven distinct greys. And they’ve surrounded him. 

“Run Lance RUN! _THEY’VE FOUND YOU!”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Lance wakes to pain.  
His body is heavy but it won’t move when he tries to lift his head, eyes blinking up into the bright light of the sun. Unable to fight against the pull that fights him, Lance drops his head drops back down to the earth. Between the fluttering of eyelashes, can see the world pass by.  
He’s laid down, he thinks, but then his feet feel very _up_ compared to the position of his throbbing head. He pulls on his legs, pain running through his body when his back slams against something hard and he’s coughing, choking, on sand, heat, and a metallic taste in his mouth that makes his tongue numb. _Gross._

Lance hears a voice calling out to him, trying to speak, but the question of Keith upon his lips is nothing but a shaky groan, stolen by painful coughs that scratch at his dry throat and throw thick liquid over his lips that he wants to spit from his mouth. It’s the same, warm, metallic taste that Lance knows but can’t remember it’s name. 

His head won’t listen properly.  
His body won’t listen properly, but he doesn’t care as he continues trying to call out for Keith.  
“K… K—th,” he gasps, but it’s like talking around a mouthful of sand. He’s breathing hard, but the air just won’t go in, won’t formulate words. Pain forces his teeth shut, still tingled from the electricity that had been pressed against his neck.  
Lance perseveres. 

“K-Keith?”

It’s not Keith that answers, but another. A stranger, who forces weight into the front of Lance’s neck and suddenly he can’t breathe at all. He fights for air, caught between the pain of choking and the fear of another attack from the strange figures who ambushed him.  
The threat of electricity pulls a whimper from lips, a jerk of his body that does nothing but add to the pain in his back that throbs, dull and never-ending in the back of his conscious. 

_“Akola,”_ a raspy voice shouts at him. The word isn’t anything that Lance recognised, no matter how much his memory tried to relate it to his understanding. All he can focus on is the Red Paladin. 

“Kei—Keith,” Lance calls again, able to get air with the removal of the weight, but the second he gasped the word, the uncomfortable pressure is back.  
_“Akola,”_ the raspy voice gnashes again. “Who—?” But the word was a mistake and the Lance barely has time to register the blue light in front of him as an arch of electricity dances across his vision. 

There’s no scream this time. Just a grunt of irritation from the discomfort.  
There’s no pain either, and that’s a comfort as a heavy hand drags Lance’s conscious back into darkness, his eyes rolling up into his helmet and he’s gone. 

The next time his eyes opened, Lance didn’t have to blink or shy away from the bright light of the sun. It was dark now. At first Lance feared blindness, but slowly, depth grew in the shadows, his eyes adjusting to the lack of light. There are shapes around him; statuesque, non-moving.  
The boy allows himself to focus, watching as shapes of metal and equipment forms in the gloom, their metal sheen giving the illusion that they glow. They don’t, in fact, but Lance’s mind is a jumble of puzzle pieces in a box that has been shaken, stirred and topped with a cherry and a cocktail umbrella. 

Instead of producing their own light source, the salvage goods reflect the light of a fire, several _Lines_ away from where the boy lay, body twisted and dumped unceremoniously. He’s laid on his side, his mouth still drooling blood that lays sticky on his cheek and in his hair. He head hurts, but it’s all blissfully numb, even the pain in Lance’s gut. His arms are pulled tight behind his back, his ankles locked together with bindings that dig into his skin. He’s unaware he wears no armour, his mind unable to put those piece back in place just yet. 

Lance lays there, blinking back the darkness, remaining still as the sound of footsteps and voice float around in the… _where was he?_

Lance isn’t outside he realises, eyes sweeping right, up to the ceiling of a rocky ceiling. It is slightly smoothed in places, near the joins of walls and supporting rock, much like weather worn rock beds that are eroded.  
But the scraping lines, the cracks and fissures in the architecture tell Lance all he needs to know. Man-made. 

The boy’s mind jumps to his captors, focus returning to the voices that echo behind him. He forgets himself, forgets the stillness he adopted as a crack draws his attention and his head snaps to over his shoulder. It hurts, but it allows him to see what lies behind him.  
Seven figures, different heights, different builds, all sat around a fire pit: the source of the noise. They’re roasting a creature over it, their voices loud and angry as the smaller tries to steal a bite before it is finished, distracted enough they don’t focus on Lance and the fact their quarry is no longer unconscious.  
He searches for an escape. But the light of the fire only stretches so far and Lance cannot see far enough for an exit. Lance glares angrily at the ceiling, cursing himself for his stupidity, his captors for their luck. 

He curses the universe too, as if it would make him feel better. But it doesn’t and Lance drops his head in defeat, nose buried in the dusty earth, the sticky sludge of _not-yet-dried_ blood and the sand of _Torus’s_ underworld caves.  
The sand prickles at his nose, the dust in his nose, alerting his captives to his awakening by a bought of coughs. The same pain returns to his throat. No matter how many times Lance swallows, he can’t soothe it, instead spitting whatever moisture collects on his tongue, hoping to rid the taste of his own warm blood. 

“He’s awake.” 

Lance is surprised the words make sense. He turns again, looking over his shoulder to the sight of an approaching someone. He can’t move quick enough to avoid the cold shiny _something_ that is thrust under his chin, forcing his face up, neck exposed. Expecting the volts again, Lance tenses up, his eyes scrunched, teeth biting painfully into his lips to stop the noise from urging his tortures to hurt him even more.  
Laughter garbled from behind him, amongst slurs that are directed at him. They throw jokes back and forth, one urging the creature to hurt Lance. “Go on Jo’fir. Do it again.”  
But the shock never comes. Instead, the pressure is removed, and Lance’s head snaps back to the uncomfortable position, cheek slamming painfully into the ground. It earns him laughter and a recharge to the pain throbbing behind his eyes. 

“Why bother,” came a voice from beside him, but with closed eyes Lance doesn’t know who it is, cringing when he hears more footsteps. 

“It’s just a _‘Culm.’_ Throw him to the Kokachet and be done with it.”  
“Oh come on Jo’fir. We can have a little fun before we kill him.” 

Lance’s blood turns to ice, eyes flying open at the fear of death. A constant companion in a space war, he had somehow managed to ignore the fear every time he faced the Galra and their war ships. But here, trapped in the darkness on _Torous,_ far from Voltron, far from family… _Was he to die here?_

Panic took hold then.  
Tightness in his chest, no air in his lungs. Lance pulled at the bindings on his arms, straining with as much energy as he could muster. Pain flared at his wrists, the restraints digging into flesh, but Lance doesn’t care if he can get away from here and the darkness, the overwhelming fear that thunders in his heart until he’s certain it is about to burst from his chest. 

“No. Jo’fir cannot kill the _Culm._ Garecht found it, Garecht keeps it.” 

Lance can hear the words, but the panic steals his thoughts. It’s hard to focus on anything other than the fear, the pain in his chest. His forehead throbs; the sound of the ocean crashing against his skull, his ears popping as the tide ebbs and flows. Salt on his tongue makes him gasp for water.  
His wrists hurt but he keeps fighting, his mind pulled in all directions: _escape, death, fear, Voltron, rescue—_

_{They don’t know where we are Osito. They’re not coming.}_ The familiar voice calls to Lance, dragging his conscious back from the turmoil of drowning. His eyes fix upon the creature that kept him company in the storm. His eyes plead in hope but the shadow cat just shakes its head. 

_{We’re on our own.}_

The words were a charm to him.  
Somehow, they gave Lance an odd kind of comfort. _It’s okay. I wasn’t needed in the first place._  
Understanding that Voltron would continue fighting without him, perhaps even winning sooner now that he was no longer dragging them down, Lance stopped fighting the bonds. He stopped struggling for air; no longer feeling the fear as he waited for the inevitability of death. 

It’s odd, this emptiness he sinks into, staring at nothing in particular as the aliens around him devise his death. 

When Allura was taken by the Galra, everyone felt the unrestrained panic at their friend being lost to them, fear for her and the horrors that Zarkon would subjugate her to. They thought _her_ death inevitable, yet it was Voltron who came to her rescue.  
Voltron wasn’t coming to save Lance. 

“We’re on our own,” he said to the creature, watching it’s yellow eyes blink sadly back at him.  
It hasn’t moved, eyeing the aliens, searching the cavern walls for a tunnel; a way out. There isn’t one, Lance knows that, but the fault of Human’s is false hope and he feels it now, churning inside him amidst the emptiness. With nothing else, he latches onto the feeling, the flicker of warmth in his gradually cooling body.  
He doesn’t think to his captors until his companion is beside him, hissing up to the shadow that falls across the pair of them. 

_{He’ll hurt us.}_

_“Culm_ is Garecht’s prize,” it says, the shadowed cloak pulled back to reveal the shape of a frog-like alien; boils raised across it’s mustard skin, slime across its face and along the arms that reach down and grab Lance roughly by his hair. He’s picked up and dragged closer to the fire, his body and face scraping against the rock surface.  
It grins down at him with every cry of pain pulled from Lance’s bloodied lips, a row of bumpy teeth and three tongues that lick over the alien’s face, lapping up the disgusting slime that it secretes from its pores. Lance is hit by the smell of rotting meat that’s been left to cook in the sun. He stifles a gag, trying to turn his face away when his hands still refuse to escape their bonds and protect his nose from the putrid smell. 

“Garecht keep,” says the frog, turning to its comrades as if challenging them to stand against them. Either brave or stupid considering the thin-limbed creature held nothing over the bigger, meaner looking aliens. 

Lance looked up at them from his space upon the floor, glaring on instinct. It earned him a kick to the face.  
The motion restarts something in Lance’s body and he’s coughing, choking. He retches and the pressure in his head is soothed slightly with a pool of sick that splashes on the boots of his captive, a disgusting mix of green food goo and thick red blood. 

The aliens recoiled, repulsed.  
“Garecht’s _Culm_ is broken,” the frog whines, hopping another pace back. The distance allows Lance to get a good look at him, whether he wanted to or not. 

The frog’s skin is somewhere between murky yellow and mouldy green. It’s covered in bumps and boils, white from pus, his slime leaving a trail back to the deeper cavern where they had stashed the Blue Paladin as they decided what to do with him.  
Now, the frog thinks it holds a claim over him. _Not likely._

Lance shifts his weight, trying to sit up but the shadow-cat calls out to him. _{No Lance, they’ll hurt us.}_  
The Blue Paladin ignored his companion and sat up anyway, kneeling on legs bound together at the ankles. His head swam with the motion of moving, but he stomachs the bile that wants to coat his front, turning away from the first pool. He notices that some still coats the boot of the nearest alien and he smiles. 

“Perhaps not as weak as I thought,” says the one who kicked Lance. Lance gave him another scowl, suppressing the shudder as he looked to the towering sight of a tall, bulking lizard.  
White scales glittered in the firelight, his maw bloody from feasting on the roasting Kokachet that still hangs on chains above the fire. His eyes shone like medallions, but the richness wallowed in a bloodlust that froze Lance instantly; prey in the sights of a predator. 

“I’m not weak.” Lance tried to model his voice on the low, threatening tone his opponent had used. It didn’t earn him fear, but a wry smile that played on the crocodile’s lips, revealing rows of sharp teeth, much sharper, much larger than should’ve deemed necessary.  
The creature leant forward, into Lance’s space, large spine protruding from the hood of his cloak. The Paladin refused to give the alien ground, meeting the golden eyes with a defiance he thought he’d lost to the fear of inevitable death. 

_{Lance, be careful},_ came the voice of his friend, hidden in the shadows cast by the flickering firelight. But there was nothing for Lance to do but stand up to his captors and refuse to let them see his fear.  
The words _“Paladin of Voltron”_ resonate in his mind. How can he help the universe if they’re seen as weak by Lance’s cowardly mistakes. 

_{But you’re not a Paladin anymore.}  
They don’t know that. _

It is silent in the cavern, except for the crackling of the fire and the sounds of wind blowing through tunnels. The air hangs thick with tension as Lance and the crocodile continue to wait the other out.  
The alien bends first. 

“You’re a tough one aren’t you,” it says, eyes glinting with a light that tells Lance it is not a compliment. The shadow cat warns him against speaking but he doesn’t listen. “You don’t know me.” It earns him a slap across the face. The force of it sends Lance crashing back to the floor in a bout of coughing. He spits fresh blood from his mouth, the stinging of a lip caught between teeth prickling tears in his eyes. 

The aliens are laughing at him again. 

_{Osito look! There, behind them.}_  
Lance looks, disguising it with catching his breath, head bowed, side eyeing the lightening tunnel that he can now see from his new sitting, thanks to the frog that dragged him here. He’s still stood beside him, looking down with ill-content and anger to the lizard for trying to break _“Garecht’s Culm.”_  
There’s a knife on his belt, but it’s just as useful as Lance’s Bayard that remains stored in its containment on his thigh. He can’t retrieve it with the way his hands remain behind his back, pressed into the ground from where he’s been knocked again. Besides, what could he do? Pull out his blaster and shoot blindly at his bonds?  
No. He needed a blade. He needed that knife. 

The shadow cat stands beside the escape route, pawing at the wall with an urgency, showing Lance the tunnel that twists upwards. But it’s as close to him as Voltron. Without a blade to cut his bonds, Lance isn’t going to be going anywhere. But listening to the arguments over his head, Lance knows staying here will be signing his death warrant. 

_He doesn’t want to die._

_{Escape Osito, it’s the only way.}_  
How? I can’t move, I can’t run and I can’t fight, Lance thought angrily, turning his glare from the aliens to his companion that demanded the impossible of him. He wanted it too, of course he did: the shadow cat was simply an extension of himself.  
_{We’ll die if we stay here.}_  
I know that! But I can’t break the bonds, they have to be cut. I need a blade, a sword— Lance stopped, mind catching on a detail he’d been aware of but stupidly overlooked.  
_Keith. He’s here, he heard me call out._  
{That doesn’t mean that he’s searching for you.}   
Lance shook his head, trying to ignore the negativity. _No, he will, he’s looking for us._

_{And what happens when he finds us?}_

Fear.  
Real fear, as real as the fear of death, dragged into the limelight at his companion’s words. _{Again, we’re hurt. Again, we’re alone, in need of another to come and save us. You already said they don’t trust you, and look where we are. Again.} _

_{You said they don’t need you, and you’re still holding onto the hope that they’ll save you. Why? Moral obligation? Because it’s their job as Paladins?}_  
It’s not like they care either way.  
{So why are you still holding on?} 

Because it’s the only place he belongs.  
But as Lance thinks that, he comes to understand, it’s not true. He doesn’t belong. He just exists, filling a gap, saving space for another. _Placeholder._  
Lance clenches his eyes shut in anger, denying himself the truth. As if closing his eyes and turning his cheek would solve his problems by ignoring that they actually exist. 

A shiver of cold runs through him, a jolt to his system as it begins to wake from the stasis from _Eyre._  
It was then that the Blue Paladin realised that his upper armour was gone. His under armour is torn too; patches of the black weave are scratched and torn, frayed to expose more of his body than he was comfortable with, in the sights of his alien kidnappers. Blood seeps along grazes, skin dusted with sand from where’s he’s been dragged. His arms are patchy at best; no gloves or gauntlets but frayed material of his black under suit.  
With his arms pressed to his spine Lance can feel the wetness of blood on his arms, realising that more damage has been inflicted on the burn caused from the explosion on the Cargo-ship. And with the _Eyre_ wearing off, he was soon to be in agony.  
The window for escaping was steadily closing. 

Another shudder starts and this time Lance can feel the burn inside, in time to lean forward and empty his guts on the floor, cringing at the sight of partially digested food goo. A ripple of disgust makes its way from his stomach, as the food goo looks far too similar to what it looked like going in, masking the relief of _“no more blood.”_

“Broken, broken,” the toad yelled angrily, jumping from one booted foot to the other, giving Lance a kick as if it was his fault he was throwing up. “Piss off,” Lance spat, shaking his head, tensing his jaw in case the fucking dick kicked him in the chin again. He was whining like a child who has broken his favourite toy, jumping from one foot to the other. If Lance was trussed up and in pain, he would’ve thought the sight amusing. 

Kermit kicks Lance again.  
His booted heel connected with precision, and there’s a sickening sound of something breaking. Blood pours from both nostrils, dribbling down Lance’s face, down his chin. It drips onto his chest.  
The sensation would be welcome in the desert heat if it wasn’t for the fact that it was blood. _His_ blood. 

“Piss off,” the human snarled, spitting the disgusting taste from his mouth, directing it towards Kermit and the Crocodile alike. It gets him another grin and Lance fails to stop himself shying away from the golden eyes that wants more blood from him.  
Instead, he focuses on the pain. 

The throbbing in Lance’s head is strong enough to block out a lot of what is going on around him; the heat of the fire, the stench of his vomit, the pain in his body and the voices of his hunters deciding if Lance gets to live.  
_I just have to stall. Keith will find me._

“He’s not broken Garecht. Jo’fir just thought the _Culm_ could handle the power of his Gar.”  
Jo’fir; a long hooded figure, shrugged his shoulders. “So what? You said he was Human, Ovule and we’ve all heard of them at least once; furless, small little aliens that are suddenly battling Zarkon on his doorstep for the freedom of the galaxies. I was a little curious of his strength.” He huffed a sigh, regarding the slumped form of the Blue Paladin that smeared the blood tracks on his shoulder. “Frankly, I’m disappointed. I was expecting a fight at least.”  
The lizard, Ovule, turned it’s ugly, elongated snout upon Lance and smiled. Or sneered. Whatever he did there was teeth and Lance steeled himself back to staring once again. He didn’t have the energy to furrow his eyebrows; his headache was too much of a balloon inside his headspace.  
Words swirled around inside his mind; _escape, Keith, bindings, knife, Voltron, escape, run, knife, bindings, Keith—_ over and over. 

“It might not be strong, but the Human shows fire. And also…”  
Without warning, the creature shoved a clawed hand outwards, at first concealed by the folds of its cloak but now it’s in front of Lance, a hand around his throat, lifting him up to his knees. He only needs one hand; strong enough to support Lance like he’s a bag of sugar and nothing more. The boy feels more like a hunter’s kill than a bag of sugar.  
Lance’s back screams as Ovule pulls him up higher, now balanced on the tips of his toes to stop himself from being hung in the meaty fist. Lance would scream too, but the pain emptied his lungs. Trying to draw air is like breathing through a straw. 

The boy is man handled like a rag-doll, eyes shut tight, hiding himself from the clarity of the alien who shoves his face closer, nose sniffing at the blood on his face, the bile that drips from the corners of his mouth. He could hear his jailer purr, pleasure in his breath as Lance’s heart rate sped up. The Alien leaned closer, nostrils flared as he took in the scent of his prey. Lance wanted to turn his head, but it wasn’t in his control as the slightest movement had the alien dig his claws in further.  
A hand grabs Lance’s wrists, the bindings too, and with a deliberate strike of extended claw, the rope is cut. But so is Lance’s skin and he hisses from the stinging. _{It’s okay, it’s not deep,}_ the cat calls to him from somewhere he can’t locate.  
Just a flex of the powerful grip, and Lance grimaces as the cuts deepen and the traces are streams, trickling like paint down his arm that he lifts to hold onto the hand around his throat. “Put me down,” he growls, as if the demand holds weight.  
Croc ignored him, his tongue dragged along the length of Lance’s arm, saliva left hot and sticky, dulling the stinging. He spat the blood from his mouth instead of swallowing, turning to the others. “He’s stronger than we think. The damn thing reeks of _Sugkie._ Tastes of it too.” 

Jo’fir bit his lip in a sardonic grin. “And he’s still acting like that? Damn. I take back what I said, the Human is stronger than I thought.” There was awe in his tone but it meant nothing to Lance who didn’t know the words.  
“Not in strength though,” Ovule sneered, throwing Lance back to the floor, the boy falling in his vomit, feeling it press against his chest as he gasped for air. But now, his hands were unbound and the boy could push himself away from the vile mess.  
Instinctively he reached for his Bayard.

_{Lance not yet!}_  
But escape—  
{Perhaps not} the creature said softly, appearing beside Lance, sniffing at the blood, a tongue lapping kitten licks on his face. _What do you mean?_  
But before the creature could answer, a hand grabbed at Lance and he was trapped again. Instead of lifting him, Lance remained on the floor, just his chin trapped in the painful grip of the towering crocodile. “Gereen made a bad choice in choosing you,” he said, turning his face this way and that so that he could see him better in the light. “You’re physically weak. Although, if you got away from him, I can’t say that really.”

Lance grasped at the words that spilled around him. _Get away from who? Who chose him?_  
But the aliens won’t tell him, even if he asked so he holds his tongue and waits, knowing backchat will just bring him more pain. He’s got to get out of here. He’s got to get back to the Castle, to the _team,_ to _Blue._

The Human’s silence isn’t what Ovule wanted. He wanted the usual whimpering his victims portrayed, the shaking sobs and pleas for mercy, for freedom or forgiveness.  
With his hand still around the Human’s chin, Ovule squeezed tighter, watching the blood of his nails dig into the soft, plump flesh, watching blood lines trace his claws, spilling further over the warm skin, the heartbeat beating feebly in his chest. This Human’s blood was different to the usual prey.  
It was warmer, sweeter. _Addictive._

But the light in this Human’s eye tells him he isn’t going to feed his fantasies, even if he keeps hitting him about a bit, whether he draws more blood or not. Maybe this was what Gereen saw, and the reason he had targeted him.  
The claim stood as clear as a brand, but as long as the Human fought the effects of the _Sugkie_ then Ovule had every chance of stealing Gereen’s prize. 

“Interesting,” he purrs, interrupted by Garecht’s whining. 

“Not fair, not fair,” he grouses in annoyance, kicking off in another tantrum. “Gereen can’t have Garecht’s prize. Garecht found him. Garecht keeps him.”  
The incessant shouting earned him a flick to his nose from Ovule, and laughter from the others. “You don’t get him Garecht. And neither will Gereen,” he says, turning back to where Lance had pushed himself away from the group and the heat of the burning fire. Ovule’s eyes glowed golden in the light. 

“No. I think I’ll keep this one for myself.”


	4. A Want To Be A Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has been captured by Aliens. Keith sets out to find him.

**System:** Ruse Minor  
 **Location:** Torous

“Lance? LANCE!”   
The scream stopped as quickly as it had begun, replaced with the deafening sound of radio silence.   
Nothing. Not even static.   
The only thing that remains is a fear in his chest. 

Keith kept trying, shouting out in desperation, panic rising in his chest. At first it was the same discomfort that plagued him as he walked the surface of _Torous,_ searching for salvageable material, focused only on the task of returning with parts to fix a ship and send the Trigamon on their way.   
Why hadn’t he given more thought to the silence? Why hadn’t he realised that it wasn’t Lance who chose to remain silent, but that he wasn’t able to call out? Was the truth that Lance thought Keith to be ignoring him, after the bickering that led to silence from the rest of the team?   
We’re they fighting without the Red Paladin even knowing. 

“Lance, answer me!” 

Keith kept shouting, ignoring the guilt that barely made itself known in the sea of fear inside him. His fingertips felt cold as they wrapped tighter around the controls, his arms and legs aching as his entire body held its breath in the silence. He hoped it to just be a prank, waiting for the chortling laughter and the usual teasing. _“Aww Keith, you do care.”_

But Keith’s hopes were in vain. There was nothing but silence; the only constant the two shared since they last saw one another. 

To say now was the time that Keith started freaking out was a fair statement. But the constant yelling; the repeated smashing buttons to hail the Castle and the running sarcastic commentary of his own blunders was only the beginning of the Red Paladin’s meltdown.   
He jammed the pedals to the floor, his fingers twisting on the shuttle’s controls as if they were around the Blue Paladin’s neck. But it’s not just anger that controls his actions; it is also the suffocating fear.   
Keith knows it, and he knows the reason behind the feeling that makes him choke on the air around him. But the boy, stubborn in all aspects of himself, still refuses to acknowledge it. 

This isn’t the first time that thought has entered his head, nor the coupled regret that is as heavy as manacles. _What if this was it? What if he’s gone and Keith is still to reach out to the boy that means more to him than petty rivalry and a decent spar?_

Keith understands the fault of his emotions, the distraction they can bring, and that emotions are what get you hurt. Especially when they were in the midst of war.   
He’d love to shove them down to who knows where, lock them in the closet and turn his back, bring his focus away from feelings, to the fight that waits for him on the horizon.  
But emotions weren’t an unwanted Christmas gift that you could hide in the back of your wardrobe.   
They were a fundamental basic of daily life. 

Keith’s life was anything but basic. Being a Paladin of Voltron and Guardian of the Universe, _–or whatever shitty title they held along with the shit tonne of responsibilities–_ such responsibilities that his other teammates didn’t seem to understand.   
Lance most of all. He ignored his duties countless times, always getting himself into trouble.   
And now it was Keith’s duty to rescue him. 

The Red Paladin growled out as many colourful insults his head could think of, trying to vent his unruly emotions into something useful. Anger was a double edge blade, but it was better than fear, that could cripple anyone’s fight or flight instinct. Anger and irritation would fuel him, bubbling like liquid electricity in his veins, lightning guiding his way to victory as the world around him began to slow.   
The spark of adrenaline filled him, his touches minute to the handles of the shuttle, yet it responded with accuracy; the distance between Keith and the missing Blue Paladin closing rapidly, whilst Pidge’s nitro-boost lit the engine flames blue. 

The torrent of insults was super-charged when the pod’s system glitched and the module went blank. There wasn’t even a signal from the shuttle itself pod to place it on the cross-section. There was no way to compare Keith’s current location with the last known location of Lance. 

_What now?_  
Search for Lance with faulty communication systems and hope for the best? Land quickly and try to bypass the jamming signal to get a secure lock on his location, which could take minutes or hours, depending on how focused he remained and the skill of the quiznak-ing fuck that kept him off the grid.   
Or head back to the castle, grab Red, the team, and boost back here for a full, planet-wide search for the Blue Paladin that was in the hands of seven unknowns who could do who knows what in the time that Keith can’t find him. 

Fearful thoughts looped around in the Paladin’s mind until there wasn’t room for anything else. It isn’t a thought-through task of directing the pod to Lance’s last known position. It is just done, because Lance is in trouble and Keith needs to help him. 

When the pod touched down in the bowl of the second valley, there was no sign of the Blue Paladin. All that told Keith that his teammate had been here was footprints in the layer of sand left behind from the sandstorm. There were too many to deter an actual number, but the shuttle’s scan had showed him seven indicators.   
At least the footprints all led in the same direction, along with a long, unbroken line. Something was dragged. Or more likely, _someone._

Keith set off at a run, his Bayard drawn forming a sword, cursing Lance for not having his own weapon out before he got jumped. Then again, neither boy had known that they were accompanied on this planet.   
Shiro had warned them of the possibility that they might not be alone, but they settled the noise down to Kokachet and Cretins in the metal work.   
The idea of it being Sentinel Aliens was left on the back burner whilst they hunted for the parts they needed instead, splitting up to make the task quicker. 

Keith’s mind lapsed as he ran, part of his focus on the trailing footprints, other parts reliving the trip to _Torous_ all over again.   
_Lance’s silence._ The stress in his body as it tightened and relaxed and tightened over and over, laid there, sleeping, caught in a nightmare he didn’t want to accept even after he woke. Keith had pitied him, sympathised when he was reminded of himself, alone in the shack, waking up as he called out upon waking. But the sympathy was unwanted and Lance had pretended he was okay, that the 

Vagueness and the lack of rivalry was simply an after effect of tiredness, or whatever excuse he had tried to supply before the others interrupted. 

The silence continued, hung between them throughout the remainder of the trip and during the task of scavenging topside.   
The boy that wasn’t himself, who hadn’t answered when Keith tried to call out to him, who _still_ wasn’t answering, no matter how loud Keith yelled, desperate to get some sort of acknowledgement that Lance was okay, _he was fine, he wasn’t in danger—_

The loop of questions replayed. They continued, building in emotion. Anger to Lance for being an idiot and getting hurt, fear for the thought of just _what_ had happened. _And where was the damn fool was now?_

_“—th?”_  
“Lance! Lance I’m here buddy, where are you,” he said, words cracking on relief. _He wasn’t dead._  
“Keith?” But before Keith can answer, he hears another voice; angry and foreign. _“Akola,”_ it says, and again when Lance keeps calling out for the Red Paladin. A hiss of energy resounds in Keith’s earpiece and he yells out again, but Lance’s voice is silent. _No, no no no nononono—_

Keith charges forward, vision red as he chases the shuffling footsteps. They weren’t too far ahead. He’d find Lance and he’d save him.   
His own unruliness would do no good for his concentration or focus in the inevitable fight to come. He knew very well that it wasn’t just him in danger if he let his head go and anger takes hold.   
Breathing deep just pissed him off more, so Keith sought out logic. Calm mind meant easier thinking. Anger would cloud judgement and he needed to assess the situation before diving in head first. Maybe, if he played his cards right, there would be no fight and he could get Lance out without letting loose.   
_Plan. Get a plan in place._ But Keith can’t plan if he doesn’t have all the details. He doesn’t know where Lance is, where he’s being held, if he’s injured or not, _if he’s even still alive—_ No!

Keith’s mind went blank, stumbling on the metal underfoot as he caught himself above a canyon; the edge of the cliff tumbling far down to a magma river.   
The trail didn’t cross the chasm, instead, coming to an end at the entrance of a tunnel. The entrance is disguised in the build up of scrap, but the unmistakable marks of the aliens quarry being dragged into its depths is what leads Keith into the darkness. He doesn’t call out for Lance, knowing that doing so would alert his captors of another coming to save him. He doesn’t turn on his helmet lights either, retaining the element of surprise as he lowers himself into the gloom, slow, allowing his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light of the cave. 

The cavity curved downwards, spiralling out of sight, the roof sloping down, jagged. There were obvious chisel marks, remnants of stalagmites and low ceiling littering the pathway for Keith to step over, like the broken teeth of a serpent. It was obvious work of the cave dwellers, widening the entrance to allow themselves easier access. 

Keith knew not what waited for him below, but whatever it would be, he readied himself.   
Luck wasn’t on his side, it seemed when he approached a spilt in the tunnel. His anger spiked once more, cursing the darkness that taunted him, until a harsh laughter rippled up from the darkness deepening far away from him. The sound bubbled up, malicious and dark, sending chills down Keith’s spine despite the heat of _Torous._

“Go on Jo’fir. Do it again,” a voice said, the laughter echoing once more, as if the idea was amusing. Before Keith even caught sight of the aliens, he knew the target of their hostility.

The cave widened out into a larger room. Crudely carved into a circular shape, the walls lined with salvaged goods, stacked in piles, small towers. Net bags hung from pegs drilled into the walls, and a dozing creature slept on the far side, its neck looped with collar and a binding leash.   
Keith stole closer, using the voices to mask his own approaching footsteps, the shadows on the walls of the cave his hiding place as he moved closer, ducking behind the raided scrap as he looked down on the fire pit and its audience. Lance wasn’t there. 

Keith counts the aliens. Only six. One was missing.   
He threw his head over his shoulder, staring back up the way he’d come, fearing eyes on him. But no, the missing Alien was in the cave, not beside the fire pit but instead stood in the darkness a way away, staring down at something at his feet. 

_Lance._

He has been stripped over his upper armour; the undergarment ripped in places where it’s been pulled off of him, thrown behind like its junk.   
From here, Keith can see the skin around his eyes is swollen, lidded, and there’s blood on his face, trailing from his slack jaw. His arms are pulled roughly behind his back and bound, pushed into the floor of the cave. His legs are bound too; the same red cord that binds the sleeping watch dog, the faint pulsating light showing Keith it isn’t a simple rope or cord they’ve used to tie him up.

The alien that stands over Lance has a weapon under his chin, forcing it up to reveal shadows marking his neck.   
Keith can’t tell if it’s just from the dancing flame, or if it’s bruising. He can see more marks on the boy’s forearms and across his chest.

The alien huffs in annoyance, letting Lance’s head back down. “Why bother?” it says. “It’s just a _Culm._ Throw him to the Kokachet and be done with it.”   
“Oh come on Jo’fir. We can have a little fun before we kill him.” 

The words freeze Keith as he crouches in the shadows, instinct telling him to jump them now, strike quick and fast. But Lance is still too close to danger, and Keith feels the fear in his toes. He can’t rush in now, he doesn’t know if he’ll win. He can’t endanger Lance anymore until he formulates a plan. 

To Keith’s surprise, a short, squat little creature jumps from the fireside, an accusatory finger pocked towards the taller hooded figure. “No. Jo’fir cannot kill the _Culm.”_  
 _Culm_ seemed to be their word for Lance, and Keith watched, relief that Lance’s death wasn’t the wish for all,—   
“Garecht found it, Garecht keep it.” —just the wish to keep him like a pet. 

The alien beside Lance drew back then. “Oh, are you sure Garecht. Because I’m pretty sure it was Toil on watch.” One alien raised an appendage, the others laughing along.   
Keith used their noise to shuffle closer around the stacked junk, hoping to get to Lance while they were distracted and sneak out with him. He’s facing this way now, but Keith can’t wave to him in case it gets him caught. He lets his eyes trace the Blue Paladin’s body, looking for disjointed body parts or limbs stuck out at odd angles that would stop him from running. The bindings certainly won’t help, but Keith was sure that his Bayard could cut that. If only he still had his helmet on, then Keith could talk to him. 

“Garecht’s prize,” the alien hisses, swiping at the fire, abandoning his place by the pit in favour of barging past Jo’fir to stand over Lance. Keith’s chest tightens.   
_“Culm_ is Garecht’s prize,” it says, hood pulled back as it glares down angrily at Lance, who shies away. Keith is helpless to watch as the alien grabs Lance by his hair, pulling him back towards the fire, ignorant to the pain he causes. Lance can’t stop himself from crying out, breathing heavy when he’s finally dumped back beside the rock. The alien settles himself back on the rock, turning to the others. “Garecht keep,” he says, as if he dares them to fight him. He doesn’t realise he’s just signed a death warrant from Keith, who fails to stifle a growl, feeling his fingers clench the rock he knelt beside. 

The Red Paladin would openly admit he and Lance didn’t always get along, despite the years spent together fighting the Galra in space. Sure he found him annoying sometimes, but then everyone was like that. They weren’t going to get on constantly, and all friends fight. But still, Keith thought of Lance as his best friend, even if he never told the Blue Paladin that. They’d hang out in free time, banter when they sparred and kept each other grounded.   
Of course they fought and of course sometimes Keith wanted nothing more than to never speak to Lance again. But he’d never wish Lance to come to boy harm. Watching him tied up, beaten and bruised was enough to make Keith want to take a blade to every Alien’s throat a thousand times over.   
It took every ounce of strength he had not to charge in when one of the aliens kicked Lance across the face. 

Winded, Lance collapsed into a bout of coughing fits, body shaking. Suddenly he’s throwing up; the toxic green not as painful to see as the thick red that is mixed within it. Keith feels sick himself, his anger frowning out the wailing of the alien that complains his toy is broken.   
“Perhaps not as weak as I thought,” says the one who kicked Lance. Keith’s eyes snapping to the large hulking frame, eating meat from its hand like a savage. The rest is thrown to the six legged creature in the corner, which scarves down up the meat, whining for more. “Shut up,” one alien says, throwing a stone to silence the mutt who runs back to where the leash isn’t straining. 

Lance doesn’t wince or cry out. Instead he growls, the blood its own weapon as he spits it in the Aliens direction. _“I’m not weak.”_

The anger shown is a side of Lance that Keith has never seen before. Maybe he’s seen Lance annoyed, or irritated with a quick jab to his preferred hairstyle and choice of clothing. _(What does it matter anyway, they’re fighting a war not competing in a fashion show?)_  
When the two argue, there’s no real threat to their words, no real frustration that comes from their fighting. This anger though, _is real._

The alien, a spiny creature of white and green, leans into the boy’s space. Keith is proud to see Lance glaring back, not allowing himself to be intimidated despite the beating he’s obviously been given.   
The Alien’s size has him towering over the others, his head scraping the roof of the cave and Keith knows exactly who was breaking the stalagmites at the entrance. Powerful muscles ripple underneath tight fitting clothes. He’s showing off, intimidating his enemies long before he has stepped into the sparring ring. 

Movement stirs from the fireside. Keith glances to the remaining, noting the ways the other aliens turn at the lizard’s movements, the slight bow of their heads when he speaks, even if it’s not to them. Keith knows him to be in charge, hoping that the frog that refuses to believe such is about to get a fist in his face for his spite. 

“You’re a tough one aren’t you,” his words a caustic joke, lilted with dangerous amusement that reminds Keith of a bully. With the hood thrown back, the Alien seems to glow. His scaled skin glows white from the fire light, casting shadows onto the contours of his body, making his face look far more angular, his muscles more defined. 

Keith sees another shudder from Lance, but the boy shows nothing but repulsion at the stranger. He snarls, his teeth glistening red with his own blood and threateningly growls. “You don’t know me.”   
His words are louder this time and the bite behind it has Keith grin in admiration. But the show of defiance will do nothing but urge his captors to harm him further. 

The Blue Paladin’s defiance is amusing to the others around the pit at least, their laughter disguising Keith’s footsteps as he shuffles closer to the sleeping mutt. He has a plan, but it’s going to require a window of opportunity and Lance’s compliance. The only obstacles are the bindings and the enemy, but they’re easily dealt with as long as things play out the same as in his mind.

Things won’t go the way he plans though, Keith realises as soon as he sees Lance shudder. His body, shaking, face scrunched up in pain, shows that the brave bravado is just a mask. His stomach tightens when Lance empties his stomach again.   
“Broken, broken,” one alien chirps from beside Lance, hopping up and down like the floor is hot. It’s almost comical, yet the words he speaks are angry. Keith curses out loud when he kicks Lance in the face, the boot coming away bloody. 

Keith’s eyes shoot open wide at his mistake, eyeing the aliens, but they’re too busy watching their victim bleed from his nose, Lance still refusing to cry out and show them anymore weakness. He tells the frog to _“piss off”_ and it gets him another kick.   
Lance obviously isn’t one to pick up on hints and tells them to “piss off” again.  
This time there’s no boot, the frog too busy doing his _“broken”_ chant, hopping angrily near the fire. “He’s not broken Garecht,” the white crocodile said. “Jo’fir just thought the _Culm_ could handle the power of his Gar.” 

Jo’fir, the alien that had first been beside the Blue Paladin, shrugged his shoulders at the sound of his name, keeping his body turned from the leader as if in fear. “So what? You said he was Human, Ovule and we’ve all heard of them at least once; furless, small little aliens that are suddenly battling Zarkon on his doorstep for the freedom of the galaxies. I was a little curious of his strength.” He huffed, glaring at Lance. “Frankly, I’m disappointed. I was expecting a fight at least.” 

The lizard raised its hackles, eyes not once averted from Lance’s face. “It might not be strong, but the Human shows fire. And also—” 

Keith watches helplessly as the brute grabs Lance, four clawed fingers around his throat, the tops of his talons digging into the boy’s bare flesh. The hand is huge in comparison, easily able to lift Lance to his feet. The boy’s eyes are wide in fear, but he’s as helpless as Lance, unable to fight the hand that holds him. All he can do is close his eyes and wait for it to end.   
Keith tenses in his hiding place, feet poised to jump into the light and fight his way out. But with Lance in the position he’s in, the lizard need only threaten to snap Lance’s neck and they’d both be prisoners. 

No. Keith is forced to wait.   
The time to strike will come. He just has to wait.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Lance coughed into the floor, gasping at the air as his lungs collapse. They’re not, but it feels like that as he lays there, rolled away from his own puke, staring into the darkness of the cave.  
The aliens are still with him, they’re not leaving, busy feasting on the roasting Kokachet; the smell just as vile as the boy’s vomit. But it’s not like asking him to be moved will get the boy distance from the stench. Besides, he doesn’t even have the strength for it. All he can do it lay there and try to breathe, ignoring the pain in his chest, his back, his arm, his neck…

The blood in Lance’s mouth is warm and he gags, letting it drool from his mouth to avoid choking on it. He can hear the shuffling of feet behind him, but his guards have grown bored with their game of _‘kick the Paladin’_ and leave him to his coughing. 

More shuffling and someone is beside him, leaning down to press a soft paw to his exposed skin. Lance lets out a sigh, his head heavy, pulling him down to the promise of sleep, yet the pain keeps him adrift in consciousness.  
 _{Get up Lance. I thought you wanted to escape.}_ It’s the shadow cat; licking gently at the blood on the boy’s bruised face.   
_“How?”_ The boy breathed. Then snapped his mouth shut at the roaring laughter of the aliens. They’re still ignoring him, knowing that he wasn’t in any position to sneak out right under their noses. They think they’ve stamped out his impertinence and left him to wallow in self pity.   
There is pity there, but he’s not wallowing. He’s gathering strength. 

Lance’s hands are unbound, unrestrained but the eyes that flicker over him tell the Paladin any attempt at reaching for his Bayard will be noticed quickly. He’ll have to move quickly if he does, but then, there’s no sure way he’s to take down all the aliens. Hitting them will be no problem, but the time frame of standing and lunging at Lance will offer him about 2.5 seconds to aim and fire at each.   
And he doubts Ovule will play surrender after just one. 

_{Giving up already?}_ the monster purred, teasing him with the flicking of its tail. _No._ It was antagonising him, spurring him on to stand up and fight back.   
But Lance’s strength was waning. If he’s going to act, it has to be now. 

The Human strains at the bonds on his legs, one hand holding tight to the gash on his upper arm. He uses his body weight to jerk his head away from the stench of puke, swallowing down tears when the pain tears at his gut, threatening another bout of vomit to paint the cave floor. Food Goo, blood and stomach acid didn’t make a good mix, and the smell alone brought up another bought of digested food.   
Lance struggled to quell the feeling inside him as he rolled again, gasping in pain as the motion took him further from the Aliens. _And further from the exit._

“Don’t die Human. You’re no use to me dead,” a dark voice warns him, but the attention of the crocodile was distracted by vulgar jokes from his comrades. Their noise faded into the background, leaving Lance and his monster to converse quietly. 

_{You’re hurt.}_  
It leans in, sniffing the blood, tongue flittering over the surface, just as the crocodile had done as he tasted Lance’s blood. There’s the same inquisitive expression on his face, concern in its movements as it ghosts over the boy’s skin, not quite touching the bleeding nose or the gash on his arm. Lance pulls his hand back, hissing at the sting, but let the creature inspect. 

_{You’re bleeding}_  
“Not badly.” The words are light, pressed between two smiling lips. But they both know it’s a front on Lance’s behalf. His voice dissolved into a series of coughs that leave him panting and too tired to move other than to grip his arm and stem the flow of his blood that wants to leave his body.   
There’s sweat on his skin. He can feel it on his brow, on his nose and cheeks. _No. They’re his tears. Why is he crying? Why is he—_

_{But not badly}_ it agrees. _{But there is a foul smell to it,}_ it says, and the words spark an understanding in Lance’s unconscious. It’s not just metal in his mouth, but a bitterness that hurts his tongue, like the taste of lemon but harsher. More profound. _How come he hadn’t noticed it before?_

_Do you know what it is?  
{No. But it could be of what they spoke} _the shadow-cat says, a glare cast to the figures around the campfire. 

It’s cold now Lance has moved from its heat, but he refuses to crawl back, seeking respite against the chill that has his body shaking. Lance feels more shudders ripple through his body, goose-bumps covering his tanned skin, the hair on the back of his neck standing tall as a ghostly wind blows into the cavern.   
The fire dances in the breeze, but it’s too strong to be put out.   
A shame. Lance could’ve used it as a distraction. 

_{What if we don’t have to escape?}_

The words snapped against Lance’s conscious like elastic stretched too thin. His body jerked up and away from the floor, losing balance before ungracefully slamming back into the dusty floor amidst coughing fits. The Aliens ignored him this time, continuing to drink and jest with one another. 

Lance turned to his only companion; who remained sniffing curiously at the pool of bile. The creature ignored his scowl of anger, its attention focused elsewhere, sniffing the same scent that clung to the Human’s blood that dripped from his chin.

“What do you mean?” Lance whispers softly, facing his back to the fire, hiding his lips in case the Aliens thought him communicating with someone. No, just an imaginary alien cat that prowled before him, coming to sit in his field of vision beside his confiscated Paladin armour. 

_{I mean, why try and escape when he don’t have to.}_

The words are a shock. Like a spell, it quelled the pain inside him.   
Then, realising that he was no longer lying down in his own puddle of puke, let out a faint bubble of laughter. The motion scratched at his throat and burned his eyes but he didn’t care. His comfort blinded his pain. A simple joy in a dark situation, Lance grasped it like the threads of his conscious. He’d hold onto this until it broke. He’d keep himself from the darkness for as long as he had the will to fight. 

_{What’s so funny?}_  
“Nothing. Not really.”   
_{Then why are you laughing.}_  
“Am I not allowed to?”

The monster sniffed again, moving across Lance’s skin, its tongue tasting tasted the marks on Lance’s face, and again over his chest were similar lacerations lay, like star constellations across his skin.

_{You’re crazy}_ it drawled.   
“Of course I am. I’m talking to an imaginary being.”   
The cat scowled. _{That’s your choice.}_ Lance just shrugged, laughing when the motion hurt him. Because it was laughing or crying, and he wasn’t about to start crying. 

Driven by the spark of light inside him, Lance shifted his body again; daring to pull a hand from the gash Ovule had carved into his right arm. It was his fucking support arm, damn, holding the Blaster and aiming it was going to be hard enough but now Ovule had crippled his good fucking arm. _Quiznak._

The cat is beside him, watching the aliens with an interest, still pondering the idea that escape isn’t Lance’s only option of leaving here alive.   
“Ignore them. Help me!” It remained unfazed by its creator’s demands, looking down with that same curious glint in its eye, a ripple of movement through its body. When it stood, it had grown a just detectable whit taller. 

_{Why?}_  
“Why! What do you mean _why?_ Because we have to get back—”   
_{Why?}_ It repeated, its head cocked to side. It sat on its haunches, fixing Lance with a look he couldn’t quite place. _{Why are you so desperate to return to the Castle, to the Paladins? Why do you want to go back to somewhere where you don’t belong?}_  
“I do—”  
 _{You said it yourself.}_

Lance doesn’t reply.   
Words lay on the tip of his tongue, but the voices in his head shut them down before he can ready himself to dispute what he’s being told. What he’s being reminded what he said. 

_Place Holder._

_Seventh Wheel._

_Stand-in until the real Blue Paladin comes. _

He’s no longer a warrior; stripped of his armour and standing weapon-less in the onslaught of a more powerful enemy. Only defeat awaits him. 

_{We could belong here.}_

The monster nods to the Aliens. They’re laughing, joking with one another around the fireside. If they were not Lance’s prison-wardens, he would’ve thought the sight endearing. They’re all friends there, all taking comfort in one another’s company.   
The boy’s mind turns to his own friends, each Alien taking the place of his adopted Space Family. He can practically see them, laughing alongside one another as Coran re-enacts a famous story from Altea for everyone’s amusement, Allura and Shiro laughing along to his jokes. Hunk would be dishing up some sort of delectable snack, Pidge trying to get Keith’s opinion on improvements for projects and such.   
_{And you would still be where you are now, watching from the outside, wanting to be with them but never actually with them.} _

The monster is right.   
It’s sat next to him, nudging the top of his head gently with its maw, it’s tongue cleaning away the tears that have begun to fall; silent and warm, like silk painting his face, wiping away the pain of the Alien’s torture on his weak human body. His heart beats dully in his chest, counting down until the inevitable end. 

“I don’t want to go with them,” Lance whispers, eyes searching for the feathered comfort. Anything to take him from this pain, this darkness. Tiredness dragged its claws over him again, but the fear of not-waking kept his conscious from slipping into bliss, no matter how much he wanted it. 

Lance can feel his mother’s hand against his brow; the same hand that would card through his hair as he drifted to sleep, the same fingers twirling the end into soft ringlets that would disappear in the rain. It is the same hand that would ruffle his head when he got near-on perfect test scores, the same soft skin decorated with little gold bands and nail varnish that Mama would paint on Lance’s fingers too. He pushed his head into the heft of her hand, smiling as Mama sat beside him in the darkness, telling him he’ll be alright.   
She caresses Lance’s cheeks and moves his fringe from his eyes, fingers faltering when she catches a glimpse of the bruises on his skin. She’s caught him so many times with them before, even after he had tried to hide under his sister’s foundation. _“Oh baby, what have they done to you?”_  
“Nothing Mama.”  
“Oh my brave, brave boy. I love you so much. You don’t have to hurt anymore.”   
“It’s okay Mama, it doesn’t hurt.”   
“I mean your heart Osito. Your heart is hurting. But it doesn’t have to hurt anymore.” 

Lance opens his eyes, swimming in emotion that pours down his cheeks to be caught in the feathered paw of the creature that had made him believe that is was his Mama speaking. He can almost still smell the salt of the ocean air, the fresh loaf of bread on the kitchen side as she stands there, apron around her, the one that’s got jam stains on it from when lance wore it to make her breakfast in bed. Sunshine pours through the window, lighting up her smile, the natural beauty of her face.

_“Lance.”_

Lance shakes his head, leaving Earth in his memories, turning to the creature that sits next to him, ducking its head to look down upon its creator. It has grown again. 

“That was cruel,” Lance spat, the tears flowing without restraint. _{I thought it would calm you.}_  
“It was a cruel trick. Never do it again.” 

Laughter, cruel and teasing, bubbles up behind. Lance throws the aliens a look, his eyes narrowing when he sees their carefree smiles. He sees them with a different light now.   
Where there had been soft, gentle warmth surrounding the companionship of friends, there is now a raging fire.   
Hatred swells with it. Hatred and jealousy and an envy that Lance had felt many times before as he stands on the edge, at the in-between.   
Never quite belonging, never quiet considered an outcast. They still need him to pilot Blue of course, but they’ll never accept him fully. It’s easier to cut ties that way. 

_{Haven’t you already cut ties?}_  
“Not yet. They still need me.” Lance’s voice breaks on the last word, already knowing what his demon would say.   
And it does. Oh so sweetly, it turns on him, fixing him in a gaze his mother would regard him in when she saw the bruises, when she listened to the stories behind the beatings.   
The black snout is pulled into a gentle smile, the hurt behind its eyes barely hidden as it opens its mouth and speaks.

_{You may need them, to feel wanted, to feel like you belong, that you’re doing your part in this war that no one on Earth even knows is going on.} _

_{But they don’t need you—}_  
“No—”

_{You know that Osito. We’ve both known it for a while now. We’ve known it all along.    
{That you’re just a place holder for the real Blue Paladin, nothing but the seventh wheel of Voltron; extra weight for them to carry.} _

The words are wounds to Lance’s strength. Physically and mentally, he is hurt by his own poisonous thoughts. They’re his, the same ones from deep inside himself, the same bars to the cage of his heart he has trapped himself in, thinking it is protection, thinking the masks will block the pain and the truth.   
But nothing can hide the truth he’s known all along. He cannot turn cheek to the fact, the truths, the reality that he is useless. Just an extra body on a spaceship fighting a war. 

Sure Lance takes down a Galra soldier here, or he keeps the peace there. But it’s not like no one else can do that.   
The rest of them offer more to the team than just poorly timed jokes and a laidback attitude that was meant to calm their worries and not let them get overwhelmed by truth of the fact that they’re just kids fighting a war that’s been going on for half a millennia. 

Lance doesn’t even feel his body shift, until the dirt is pressing into his face and the firelight is hidden behind closed eyes. He has no tears left to cry, no will to fight the truth, or fight fate that binds him to the end at the hand of the aliens. 

The monster behind him watches in delight, tasting the air, savouring the sweetness of utter despair.   
It flexes its claws and digs deep into the wound that pours with so much heartbreak and worthlessness that it can’t help but gorge on the feast before it. _{They always shove you to the side, always cast you away without a second thought. They don’t listen to what you say, they don’t bother wasting breath to tell you to shut up. And when they do think they can trust you, when they ask things of you, they’re never happy.  
{They blame everything on you. The bomb, the fighting, the childish bickering when all you’re trying to do is make them understand us.   
{But they don’t trust you. They couldn’t trust you to search for scrap by yourself, that they even had to send Keith to this backwater planet to watch over—}_

“Keith.”   
_{Wha—}_  
“Keith.” 

The name stirs Lance from his pit of never-ending darkness. A light, a life line, handed to him by the monster who had dug too deep, too quickly and found the last ember of hope. The words breathed life to the ember, a spark, a flame.   
The monster reared back from the light, feeling its hold on its prey slipping. _{No Lance, he hates you, they all—}_  
“Keith’s here. I called out to him, I spoke to him before they took me. He’s still on _Torous._ He didn’t leave me. He should be coming to find me.”  
 _{But you’re just a place holder—}_  
“It doesn’t matter if I’m a place holder,” the boy said with drive, a steady tone in his voice as he opened his eyes and fixed them on his companion. He didn’t see its darkness; he didn’t feel its talons. It doesn’t know that this creature is not on his side, but that doesn’t matter because _Keith is coming._

“They haven’t replaced me yet. They still need me to fly Blue and I will. I’ll fight alongside them until they ask me to step down, but until then, I am a paladin of Voltron and I _will_ fight those that threaten others.” He turned on his side, back to the fire, back to his kidnappers. “And that includes them.”

Lance’s determination drowns out the monster. It calls from deep inside him, stalking back and forth in front of him, but the Blue Paladin doesn’t focus on the mewling as he tries to formulate a plan in his head. He can reach his blaster, but there’s no hope of taking out all the aliens with it.   
Even if taking down Ovule delays the other’s approach through the thought of self-preservations, Lance’s legs are bound, and taking his scope off his enemies to blast at his legs will allow them to jump him, and probably kill him.   
Besides, he has no idea if he can even walk, or if these seven are the only aliens, or if there are more in the tunnels. And, if Lance actually manages to take out his wards, get to the surface without getting lost, how is he able to find Keith, who may have left him. _No, he wouldn’t,_ Lance tells himself, turning from the darkness before it can find a foothold in his unconscious.   
It has, in the form of the black cat that pads the ground beside him, but it is weak in the face of Lance’s perseverance. If a direct attack is sure to fail, then gaining that trust with the boy is important. It’s the gateway into his mind and eventually, his heart. 

_{We’ll have to move first if we’re to get out of here,}_ it says, pretending to stand beside the boy. _{Move slow. Aim before you draw your blaster and fire the second you have the shot.}_  
“Ovule is our target,” Lance agrees. But before he can even reach for his Bayard, he has to shift himself into position without the aliens noticing him. Their watchful glances have reduced with his quiet, and even when he rolls onto his back, no heads turn in his direction.   
An argument has erupted between two aliens and now they stand, knives out, barking insult to one another and orders of silence to the whining of a creature Lance can’t see. Another Kokachet to kill perhaps. Lance feels pity for it, but he can’t spare a thought as he forces himself to sit up. 

The cut on his arm doesn’t need pressure anymore and although the biting sting of fresh air is pulling incessant noises from his lips, it doesn’t look as bad as he thought it would. Five minutes in the healing pod would heal it right up. 

Lance doesn’t even bother to watch the Aliens as he sits himself up, panting silently as his gut screams in protest. The throb returned with full force, and although Lance’s mouth watered terribly, he wasn’t sick. That had to count for something.   
Hands in his lap, positioned as if he was holding his blaster, Lance regarded his legs bonds. He couldn’t shoot them first, but he couldn’t shoot through them to get to Ovule. They were too heavy duty for one shot, needing perhaps a double dozen to break through their power structure.   
“What I would give for a sword right about now,” Lance muttered, heart in his throat as he lines empty hands up with the back of Ovule’s head. 

_{Focus Lance. You only have one chance at this}_

It’s a game once more. If being invisible was Lance’s ability then he’d be the best at it. His movements, slow and precise, hold their aim as he puts himself into position. He can ignore everything around him; his breathing, his pain, his slow methodical heartbeat as he lines up the back of the crocodile’s head with his imaginary barrel. 

_{Careful,}_ the voice warns. It stands beside Lance, the black feathers masking the blood beneath, turning its thirsty gaze from the pain to the Aliens that are about to fall, particularly to Ovule who remains with his back to them, oblivious to the Blue Paladin’s planning. _{He hurt us before Osito, he’ll hurt us again.}_  
“We have to do this.”  
 _{Then make sure you kill him. If not, he’ll kill us.}_


	5. A Want To Be Necessary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is prepared to fight his way out, determined to show that even though he’s a seventh wheel, he can still pack a punch. He doesn’t know Keith is there to save him, but hopefully everything goes according to their plans.

**System:** Ruse Minor  
 **Location:** Torous

The barrel was perfectly lined up with the mark on Ovule’s head, the tip of his spine marking Lance’s shot as he closed one eye, breathing slowly, finger twitching against an imaginary trigger. His heart beat slow and smooth in his chest, tripping now and again as it waited for the gunshot to signal the start of the race.   
Lance would pull the trigger, but first he had to be prepared. Fear kept him hesitating, realigning his imaginary marker every time Ovule lifted his head to speak, or threw it back in laughter. He felt pity in his stomach, but the taste of blood in his mouth quickly stole the useless emotion. 

Escape was the plan and not dying would be the reward.   
He might even get recognition from the team if all was successful. 

_{We’re running out of time,}_ the creature said from beside him, poised for a fight.   
It wasn’t real, and it would play no part to Lance’s escape, but that didn’t mean having the shadow beast beside him didn’t help calm his nerves and support him, standing on the precipice of either life or death.   
He wouldn’t know until he jumped. 

In hindsight, Lance should’ve known everything wouldn’t go the way he planned.   
Instead, he pulled the trigger and hoped for the best.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

In hindsight, Keith should’ve known everything wouldn’t go the way he planned.

He’d been so focused on the aliens, their physical strengths and the Crocodile who stands as Keith’s main threat, that he forgot the most vital part. The key element between success and failure: 

_Lance._

The Blue Paladin. The boy with the motor-mouth, the _“chillax”_ attitude that makes Keith want to smile and rip his hair out at the same time. The boy who can’t sit still for five minutes without dropping a joke or a smile of a little comment to drain whatever tension built in the room.   
The same boy that isn’t going to sit around and wait for rescue now that he’s been captured. 

The very same boy that has his hands raised as if he’s holding his blaster, silent as he sits on the far side of the room, pretending to line up Keith’s target in his sights. 

Lance only gives Keith half a second to understand his plan, half a second more to formulate his own when the familiar sound of condensed Altean energy pulsates in his hands and the Blue Paladin’s Bayard materialises from its containment on his thigh.   
And Lance pulled the trigger. 

The cry of pain is celebratory to both Paladins, telling them both that Lance had found his mark. In that same second, Keith vaults from his hiding place, yelling loudly to confuse the aliens as they scramble to stand; some tripping over one another and their weapons as they try and understand what’s going on.   
Keith can barely wrap his head around it as well, jumping back when the boar that hangs from a hook in the ceiling is targeted by Lance’s laser blasts. It drops after the third shot, the entire beast tumbling into the pit, sending sparks and fire everywhere, only adding to the cacophony of surprised yelps. 

Keith throws himself forward, blindly, his sword swinging in a wide arc as he makes for where he thinks Lance is still laid. The boys legs were still bound, the tattoos of abuse on his skin clear to anyone that he was in no position to get up and run under his own wind. It was up to Keith to get him up and get him out, away from this hell hole, far enough it’s just a bad memory and a joke they can share over the dinner table.   
Fear was no longer a part of the equation. Anger neither.   
It was Lance’s willingness to still fight, even in his injured state that gave Keith the confidence that he was okay, despite numerous injuries. He didn’t know the full extent of punishment inflicted upon him, but if he was still willing to pump the aliens full of holes, then that’s enough for Keith until he can get him back to the castle. But first, he has to get him out of the cave. 

Through the flames and mess of shocked aliens, Keith saw the sight of Lance. But not on the floor like he had thought he’d be, still firing off round after round to keep the aliens at bay.  
Keith watched in horror as the seven foot tall alien lifted his friend, one meaty hand around his throat, blood dripping from his face. He smiled, closing clawed fingers around his neck. Lance was gasping for breath, but his eyes remained on Keith, staring at him with wide eyes shining with relief. Not fear that he was about to die at the hands of the alien, but relief that Keith had found him.   
The Red Paladin’s steps stumbled, a strangled cry of resistance echoing as he raised his sword, gaze catching on the way Lance’s mouth formed one single word. _“Sorry.”_  
“NO! Lance keep fighting!” 

The crocodile turned as Keith reached him, too slow to defend against the Marmora Blade being driven towards his gut. His only choice was to dodge, instinct telling him to release Lance to make the movement easier for him. Keith couldn’t catch the Blue Paladin, instead forcing his body between him and the white skinned monster that roared with fury. 

Their window of surprise was quickly closing, the aliens behind regaining their wit as they understood what was happening and that they had to fight against this small Red clad being in order not to lose their prize.   
“Lance, get up, we’re leaving,” Keith yelled over his shoulder, throwing him his knife to cut the bonds. Lance caught it, but Keith couldn’t stop and watching him cut his ties as the crocodile spun, his tail aimed for Keith’s body.   
A right arm block took the damage but Keith had no weight behind him to keep his feet, cursing internally as he was lifted off his feet. But instead of slamming in the cave wall, Keith ejected his jetpack and regained his bearings, three feet off the floor. “Lance look out!” But the fist that fell where his body lay missed its mark as the Blue Paladin rolled, trying to get to his feet. 

A hand reached out for Keith’s and Keith was there to take it. 

“Hold on,” he yelled, darting backwards as Croc lunged for them again. “Get back here!”   
“Fuck off,” Lance growled, aiming a boot to its face; revenge for his own punishment. 

_Escape, escape,_ echoed over and over in Keith’s mind. Their way wasn’t clear, but getting rid of the aliens would be easier now that Lance was fighting by his side. But the boy was unsteady, and when he raised his blaster to take out the tall hooded beings in front of them, the laser blast flew between them, hitting the far cave wall instead.   
“I can’t—” Lance began, but his words were stolen but harsh coughs and the splattering of blood on his hands. But he was still fighting, and despite the painful grip of Keith’s hand, he was still standing. They’d get out of here. Keith would make sure of that. 

His next target was one of the tall hooded creatures while Lance aimed for the other, mind running simulations in his head when the alien produced a long shaft that pulsated with electricity at one end. Keith watched, waited, saw its trajectory and bunted the shaft to his left, into the stomach of the white-scaled crocodile who yowled at the pain of the weapon. He stumbled back, out of the fight.  
The hooded alien, unarmed, moved back towards the others. They all moved as one, spreading out to surround the Paladins, blocking the exit, deterring the humans from any ideas they may have had about fleeing. But giving up was far from his mind as Keith crouched lower, preparing to fight. 

He picked a target; one in front, where his allies would see him fall, and jumped.   
The duck-footed creature collapsed with a blood-bubbling neck wound. The familiar stench of death rose in the dusty cave. 

Keith aimed for his second target. 

The aliens hesitated, fingering blade and cudgel as if they would bring some sort of cold comfort. They sent nervous glances back and forth to one another, wordless questions played upon their lips as eyes met. Attack or retreat. If they were to decide, it would be now.   
Then, it was another’s turn. Cloaked, and almost unnoticed behind in the dancing light of the blaze that still burned hot, he remained in the blind spot of one paladin, whose mind was consumed by thoughts towards the other. To the shocked cries of his target, he darted forward. His blade turned in the air, flashing in the light.   
But it wasn't towards Keith that the blade flew. But to the Sharpshooter crouched close by. 

“Lance!” 

_{Osito move!}_ The monster spurred him into motion, knocking him into the space that the blade would not pass, his foot kicking it away from him as it clattered to the ground, lost in the shadows. But then came the sound of energy and Lance watched as the blade returned to the hand on the one that threw it, ready to try again. 

Another, tall and ready with a gun, had hoped the red-clad warrior would've leapt to the Blue’s rescue; caught off guard when its own eyes followed the trajectory of the blade, away from the blade that hooked into its hand a flick of the Red’s wrist and the gun was out of its hand. 

Lance took out the knife throwing clown, vaulting over the fire with a vicious cry, taking himself from Keith’s side and into the circle of aliens where his blaster was used as a beater, crashing down on the skull of the duck-footed alien, now unconscious.   
Without a moment to breathe, he darted back away from grabbing hands, in the same movement sheathing his blaster, rolling to the floor, hands replacing his feet as they swung in a wide circle, catching the closest target in the centre of his chest. The alien was sent clean off his feet, tumbling in a flail of limbs, rolling to the stone below.   
Gymnastics had been his sister’s hobby when she first started attending middle school, but Lance was glad he learned enough to practice parkour, or at least impress girls when _“Trick or Treating”_ as Dick Grayson. And here, in a cave on planet _Torous,_ he had probably just saved Keith’s life as well as his own. 

“Take that,” he yelled with a laugh, the vibrant memories of finally beating up his schoolyard bully fuelling him on to stand once more, take another punch and give three in return. It wasn’t punches that were exchanged, instead laser shots and abuse thrown between the motion of aiming for a new target. 

Keith sent Lance an approving grin, distracted once more, striking out as two enemies tried to creep closer to him in the chance that he was distracted by his friend. No such thing. They met his blade with their own, fierce cries strangled into silence. One dead. One wounded. That would've been two if his sword hadn't hit badly and glanced off the second's armoured shoulders.   
But with a swipe of his blade, another body joined the count. 

The cave seemed to shrink when new aliens ran into the room, joining the battle of what felt like two against a thousand. The Red Paladin forged forward, ignoring the squirming corpses that tried to fight the hold of death.   
He looked for the pattern; the hunting movements that they performed, still testing the waters with slow feet forward, using appendages to draw his gaze and distract him from their movements. Keith ignored their tails and focused on their legs, their feet, the way their toes dug into the ground just before they lunged. 

A particle-whip whistled past. Keith grabbed it and jerked the alien off balance, dragging him closer, to drive his bayard through a gap in the armour, up under the bones, to the heart.   
For an instant, his opponent stood, locked face-to-face with his killer. Outrage, disbelief and regret surged in his eyes, before it all just simply drained away. His eyes rolled back. Dead. 

Lance watched with horror. It didn’t matter that they were the enemy, or that they’d hurt him, he couldn’t help but feel pain whenever Keith’s blade stole the light from their eyes.   
Keith was _murdering_ them. And it was all for his sake. 

“Keith no!”

The Voltron Soldier had stood for too long. A club cracked down on his back, made evil with spikes of a glass-like material driven through at all angles. They caught his body, his armour, ripping through the layers to the skin beneath. Another crack and Keith dropped to his knees. He dodged another blow, rolling away, his legs taking the attacker down. 

Lance cried out. 

_Up. Keith had to get up._  
He was on all fours, shaking his head, trying to see through the crumbling dust as a blaster shot up the cavern ceiling over and over. Keith traced the light trail back. Lance was stretched between two aliens, who yelled abuse as they dragged him back, insulting him with slurs and harsh words, promises for more pain at his attempt to escape.   
“You're not going anywhere,” they cursed him, brutally dragging him from Keith’s side, towards the tunnel entrance. But not right, up to the surface, but left, deeper into the warren of caves where Keith would surely lose him. “LANCE!”

_{Osito, you have to fight them}_  
“I’m trying,” Lance hissed, but with his hands trapped, his bayard dropped to the floor, it’s standby form taking the place of his gun, Lance was helpless but for kicking and screaming out to Keith, who was still down on all fours, surrounded on all sides. “Help him! Ignore me, you have to help _him!”_

The monster screamed in anger as Lance was pulled away from him, but unable to reach the Paladin, he had no other choice than to try and help Keith as the boy demanded. He’d forgotten that the monster was only in his head, and his yells only served the purpose of drying his throat and stealing his air. 

Keith was barely back onto two feet before another sabre cleaved down towards his head. He simply grabbed it between blade and gauntlet, stopping it in its track, snapping it as if it were carved from wood and not the rock from a fallen meteor. 

The Red Paladin had no time to kill his attacker; chasing down those that were trying to take Lance from him. He hunted them down, throwing them to the shadows, lifting Lance to lean against his body, abandoning Bayard and Blade to take the Blue into his arms. He held him tight, knowing not to look down at the damage that he would be able to see in crystal clarity now that they were so close to one another.   
“We have to go,” he said, his words a rush of air, drowned out by the laughter next to him. “You know, I was fancying a picnic. We’re in no rush.” Keith can’t help but smile back, relieved that Lance isn’t as bad as his injuries make out if he can still make jokes.   
“Well I’m not up for a picnic. It’s not my style.”   
“Too mainstream for a first date?” Keith rolls his eyes and ignores the butterflies, dodging left as the particle whip whistles over their heads. “How about we discuss this later? Over dinner or something.”   
Keith doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but if Lance is ignoring this dire situation then he will too. And apparently he says the right thing, because Lance is lifting his Bayard to aim one-handed at their pursuers. “Alright Mullet, that’s a deal.”   
“Now get going!” 

Keith shoved Lance hard, sending him towards the upwards sloping tunnel that would lead out. He stood between him and the aliens, watching as Ovule led the pack, his maw dripping with blood as he came, demanding death. 

“Lance get up!” Lance was on the floor again, struggling with his addled conscious and the pain of moving. Adrenaline was like a drug, pushing his body forward, the discomfort of a broken body the weight that pulled him back, his movements slow as he forced himself to climb. His companion danced beside him, hissing at those that gave chase, calling to the boy as he struggled to stand.   
_{Come on Osito, we have to get out of here.}_ And he was on his feet again, blaster in his hand, trying to avoid the blur of Red as he shot blindly at his pursuers. “Lance I’ve got them, just go!” was Keith’s only response. At least Lance didn’t hit him. 

There were more yells, more screaming but Lance had already turned his back, focusing on the thoughts of _left, right, left, right,_ compelling his body to listen as he reached for the sunlight pouring into the mouth of the cave. 

“In front of you! Lance!” Keith’s shout carried over the din of the boy’s confusion.   
The Blue Paladin saw them then. Silent as beetles; two aliens scuttled towards him, their bodies aglow as they stood with their backs to the sun; two stumpy mushrooms-things wearing glares and long staffs. “Watch out!” But Lance had already dropped to a knee, deliberately this time. He steadied his hands on his thigh, his blaster aimed to the one on the left, smiling at the hesitation the motion brought.   
The creature counted down for him, and with a cry of _{now!}_ Lance landed another perfect shot. The second went down with just as much accuracy, Lance grinning as he stood, surging with energy as he ran forward, into the blinding sunlight. 

When Keith entered the cave, in search of Lance, the clearing at the mouth had been desolate and quiet. But now, as they sought to escape, running up the slow incline of rubble and scrap heaps, the air was filled with noise from the aliens that gave chase.   
The Paladins ran, side by side, Lance twisting and turning his body to fire behind him, ignoring the pain and the way his vision filtered in and out of focus. He followed the bounding blur of the Shadow cat, it’s black and orange fur contrasting with the light yellow sands and glittering metal of the ground they ran across. Pain slowed his movements, but the freedom and sunlight lit a fire within him, filling his arms with strength, his legs with speed as he raced across the uneven surface of _Torous._

Keith cursed himself as they ran, guiding Lance towards the shuttle that he assured him was just up ahead, apologising for not landing it closer, as if mid-chase was the perfect time to reassess his mistakes and apologise for them. The shuttle, insight, glinted in the light of the setting sun. It was like it was laughing at them. 

“Get back here!” Ovule yelled from behind. More cries chorused with him as laser blasts followed the footsteps of the Paladins up the mountain, towards their escape and beyond that, the endless expanse of sunset that poured across the sky in golds and orange and red. It looked like blood. It made Keith feel sick.   
He couldn’t fight, defend Lance and flee, all at the same time. The Aliens knew this. More picked up arms; twisted metal, rocks for throwing in a hail of stones to topple either Paladin, outraged at the deaths of their fellow fighters. 

Keith saw the light before he saw the ship.   
A gigantic spark from the left of his vision when he turned his head to watch his attackers, only a moment to scream _“run”_ before the hillside exploded in fire. 

Keith and Lance were thrown to the side from the blast; the rubble of the explosion raining down on the mob that were forced to find shelter before they were buried in the shower of debris. Aliens scurried into the holes of the mountain, yelling in all manner of noise as the explosion sounded off again.   
Keith rolled and rolled, his body carrying momentum, arm out to catch himself. He felt it jar against something solid, bone grinding against bone and a cry that sounded like him and not at all from the sheer pain of the tone. 

_Lance.  
Where’s Lance? _

Lance was to his right, not thrown as far, struggling to get up, reaching out, trying to grab onto thin air to help pull himself to stand. The disturbance underfoot made it hard for both, Keith reaching Lance before he’d struggled to his feet.   
“Go,” the boy said, pushing at Keith, eyes on the prize of the shuttle that stood just a jump from their position. A hundred metres, give or take, but a hundred miles to Lance who could feel his mind dragging. The cat was stood at the top of the mountain, yowling in vain to a soldier who couldn’t stand. His brain told him what he had to do, but the message was lost on the way to limbs that shuddered and shook when all he wanted them to do was help him stand up, climb into that shuttle and fly far, far away from here. 

Noise grew behind them. Keith turned, watching the figures pull themselves from the shadows of corroded metal, weather-worn and sturdy against the spaceship’s destructive barrage. No more were sent, but Keith feared that any moment, that familiar Pirate Ship was going to send missiles towards the shuttle, leaving the Paladins stranded; at the mercy of their enemy.   
The odd dozen remaining thugs turned into a mob once more. Sharp swords, light blasters, phasers, clubs, and all manners of threatening weapons were brandished.

“Go,” Lance said again, firm press of his palm on Keith’s chest, keeping him from hoisting Lance onto his back and sprinting that last few yards to safety. 

“Keith, get going. You can’t stay here,” he kept saying, pulling words from thin air, desperately holding onto his conscious.   
Upright wasn’t good for him. It played with his head. He couldn’t focus. “Get to the shuttle and go.”   
“Now’s not the time to play hero,” Keith bit back, turning in a panic, his mind straining under the pressure as he looked for a hole in the net closing around them. He needed to get to the pod, but with Lance’s inability to keep himself upright, he feared the worst. 

There were more Aliens than he remembered, crawling through the debris of the warped junk towards him and Lance who had finally returned to his feet. Orders were called out between them, calling in for back up, calling for one another to surround and trap the Paladins. But they were already trapped. Too far from the shuttle, too far from the Castle. _They were trapped._

Two moved at once.   
Keith jerked back, aside. The blaster shot meant for his neck whizzed by in a blur. The Red Paladin twisted in time; only the edge of the laser scratching Lance’s un-armoured arm. But concern for Lance caused him to be slow in reacting to the sword that drew from his blindside. He ducked this time, feeling his mullet ruffle with the force of it. 

Lance tumbled from his grip, unable to place his feet beneath him as he met the ground with a hard _thud._ Keith couldn’t spare him a hand, instead, once more, shoving him roughly towards the pod, barking orders at him to _“get up and run,”_ putting himself between the Sharpshooter and the pack-like mob.   
Keith’s eyes flared with challenging fury, trying to raise himself up, standing ready with both Marmora Blade and Altean Bayard in front of him, a backwards cross stance signifying his resolution that no Alien would get past him. He eyes the Pirate Ship that hovered in the atmosphere; the rail guns pointed his way but they remained inactive and lifeless. Hopefully they’d stay that way. 

Four stepped forward this time, although they waited, thinking, assessing before they moved. The closest charged for a strike of defiance. Keith sidestepped his blade; held at point. Spear-like as it jabbed at him. His opponent lunged. The Red Paladin whirled to face him. He avoided one sharp jab, only to step in line of another.   
The blow glanced off his ribcage, nothing more than a shove in the wrong direction. The weapon didn’t even pierce him. But the bunt was painful enough to wind him.   
In front of Keith, two foul attackers leered at him, grinning before a third, to the right, jabbed at his midsection. A normal blade would’ve been fine. This one, however, hummed with electricity. It glanced off of both Keith’s bayard and blade, and suddenly the Red Paladin went on the offensive. He swept his arms wide, taking out the nearest three.   
But one proved effective at defence, and Keith’s Bayard was met with an equally sharp sword. Larger than any the Red Paladin had ever seen, held with ease up high, it was the Arroyo once more. The same that remained in charge of the Aliens. The same that had hurt Lance.   
The crocodile’s eyes flickered to the Blue, the glint in his eyes telling Keith who his _true_ target was. 

The Red Paladin wasn’t going to let him get any closer to Lance. He swung wide with both blades, the tips of the refined ore scratching the iron work of the ground he stood on, sparks flying as swords dragged behind him, his pace quickening, Keith charging to meet his attackers head on. 

Those that had planned to attack shrunk back to the others, only Ovule daring to take on such a feral soldier. He grinned, flexing his arms, his tail swishing in excitement as he readied himself in front of his men, teeth snapping alongside the echoing footsteps of the Red Paladin’s approach. 

“Keith!”   
“This _chiarecht_ is mine! Take the Blue, but I want him _alive.”  
“Over my dead body!” _

Fury fuelled the Red Paladin’s movements and he struck again. Bayard and Blade met Sword once more.   
Both Human and Arroyo were equally matched in terms of skill, but where the Crocodile had strength, Keith had agility and speed. With every strike, the other retaliate with precise deflection or a simple dodge it.   
It was more than a battle of power and prowess; a test of speed and also stamina. 

Keith had experience and a nimbleness about him, and plenty of stamina that would keep him on par to Ovule’s brute strength. But the human had been fighting many, depleting his energy supplies whilst the Croc had waited for his subordinates to tire the Red Paladin, rather than fight him straight on.   
But Ovule was also at a slight disadvantage. He had fought many before Keith, but none as quick, and certainly none with the boy’s battlefield intelligence, refined over time and now almost perfect in every sense of the word. Arrogant and proud, he didn’t think of this as he stepped into Keith’s right-hand swipe, his large sword brought up in a wide, sweeping arch.   
Keith threw himself back to avoid the fangs of the monstrous sword. It moved swiftly and freely as if the sword itself was alive.   
Behind, the rumbled of laughter grew from the crowd. They had been wanting the Red Paladin’s death since he first killed one of their own.   
And now, Ovule would give it to them. 

One, baited by the promise of blood, grew impatient. He charged forward, yelling as he did, only to impale himself on Keith’s bayard, sharper than talons. His body fell, becoming just another corpse without a face.   
The death spiked rage amongst the gathered crowd. They raised their make-shift weapons, shouting abuse and death threats. “Kill him Ovule. We’ll hang his head like a trophy!”   
“NO!” It was Lance who cried out in protest, appearing as if from nowhere. He had seen the blaster raised before Keith did. With his focus trapped on the Crocodile, keeping him from Lance, he was completely unaware of Toil’s gun aimed for him.   
Shoving Keith hadn’t been the plan. He’d made to run past and drag Keith with him, but his foot caught and Lance stumbled. Right into the path of the laser blast. “LANCE!”   
The laser skimmed his skin, the wound cauterised the second it was made, leaving only the pain of burning and a disconcerting feeling that would make Lance throw up if his stomach wasn’t already empty. “I’m fine.”   
He stood, one arm outstretched, the other holding his blaster as he used his own body to shield Keith. He wouldn’t stand idly by whilst his teammate fought to defend him. He would fight as well. 

“Lance, get away, it’s not safe,” Keith hissed, his eyes falling painfully onto the wounds that lay like star constellations across his body. He swooned on two feet, readjusting his stance to keep himself standing, yet everything wanted him to fall; gravity, his opponents, even Keith who didn’t want the boy to keep fighting, to keep pushing himself past his limits.   
_To what end? How much more damage was he inflicting upon himself with the stubbornness?_  
Keith watched in a mix of awe and horror. How was he even standing? The pain must’ve been _immeasurable._

But Ovule was distracted as well, his piercing eyes on the first prize he had captured: the Human, whose blood was sweeter than wine, the beating of his frightened heart purer than any heart song. _And he wanted him._

“Lance, go!” Keith ordered with more ferocity, grabbing the boy by his uninjured arm, pulling him back, away from the Aliens that wanted to kidnap him again. They shared a look. Of a deeper bond; hope and fear for the other, the fear of not escaping.   
Ovule saw. _And understood too much._  
He took his chance, darting forward with his blade level. But before the tip could meet armour or flesh, he was falling. Not from the Red Paladin’s blade, nor the shot from the Blue Paladin’s blaster.   
Ovule fell, his weight collapsing the unsteady weight of the ground. _A rock? I tripped over a damn rock!_

And there was the moment Keith had been waiting for.   
“NOW!” Keith, still with his hand around Lance’s wrist, pulled them away from their attackers, towards Pidge’s modified pod. “Keith wait! I can’t… I can’t—” Lance couldn’t keep the borrowed strength any longer. His vision swam, the noise drowning out his head. The ocean of noise drowned his head in confusion and everything went from up to sideways. But Keith was there, on his left holding him up, the monster on his right for a support of his hand and together the three of them are running, ignoring the sound of their pursuers.   
Lance can see the blur of white and black and red, feel Keith’s hand around his wrist, around his arm, pulling him from the sand and dustiness of the earth, up, up, _up,_ until his back hits something hard and they were thrown by the force of the pod engines as Keith slammed the nitro button before even firing up the engines.   
Not a moment too soon, as the air around them erupted into an inferno, the shuttle hatch sliding into place before the explosion could consume them too. 

They’re flying, bodies pressed into each other, into the pilot seats as Keith’s voice yells for him to hold on, _tight._ Lance can feel his conscious ebbing, hear his companion call out. Pain in his back brings clarity to his vision but he’s wishing he can’t see as the sight of the familiar bronze pirate ship fills the view of the shuttle’s windscreen.   
Their vessel is hurtling right towards it, Keith’s hands clawing at the controls to drag them into a vertical climb, up into the atmosphere, and up and up still until they’re flying with _Torous_ directly above them, the ship’s navigation system showing them their course to head back to the Castle that waits in _Nairn’s_ Outer Asteroid field. 

“This ship, won’t it track us,” Lance gasps, fighting for air as the artificial gravity kicks in and he isn’t so much squished into his seat as he is firmly sat on the searing pain of an open fissure wound. The _Eyre_ has completely worn off now, and despite Lance’s wish to succumb to unconsciousness from the pain, he can’t let himself fall if they’re still in danger.   
“Once our two remaining Dobosh of boost wears out, I’m engaging the cloaking technology. Their jammers still have our radio out so until we clear that, I can’t get hold of the Castle for a portal.”  
“Oh.”

Even though Keith declared them out of contact with the Castle, he tries the Comms anyway. “Allura? Allura, are you there? Coran, Shiro, _anyone,_ we need a portal as quick as you can?” 

Lance closes his eyes, ignoring the giddy laughter that expels from his lips. Wow. That was almost closer than the explosion on the Trigamon’s ship. He can hear Keith still calling out to the team, but the words are drowned out as weight sits itself on the boy’s lap. Lance drags his eyes open, head looking down to the cat that sits on his lap.   
_{Why are you laughing. You almost died.}  
But I didn’t. _

The monster gave Lance a scowl to which he shrugged.   
It leapt from his lap to seat itself on the dashboard opposite him, black fur flecked the crimson red, yellow eyes narrowed. _Galra yellow._ Lance flinched under the stare, the eyes reminding him all too much of Ovule whom he had left far behind.  
 _{Fine, everything worked out this time,}_ it said, adopting Shiro’s familiar tone that made Lance’s stomach clench. _{ This time, Lance. But what about next time? What about when Keith steps in the way of a blade, and he gets hurt? What if it’s not Keith, but Hunk or Coran who are forced to suffer the consequences of your actions? What if, by your mistake, you had got Keith killed?} _  
The words were Shiro’s. Twisted and warped, but they were Shiro’s nonetheless, from the lecture that the Black Paladin had cornered him with after the explosion incident.   
Lance felt heat at the memory, reeling from the anger, returning his own. _Hey, I didn’t choose to get ambushed by aliens—  
{But you chose to rely on Keith for your escape. You chose to rely on Voltron to give you a place where you yourself have understood that there isn’t one, choosing to return an face them, to tell them that you screwed up again, that you almost got Keith killed because you, a Paladin of Voltron, couldn’t defend yourself on a peaceful planet.} _

Lance said nothing. He had no words. 

_{You already admitted they don’t need you, that they’ll drop you quicker than gravity when they can find someone to replace you, but you, you yourself, are willingly choosing to return to them, to Shiro and Allura who are going to judge you for this failure.   
{You’re choosing to take yourself back to them, to grovel at their feet and ask them to overlook you inabilities just so you can keep playing happy family with them.} _

There was pity in its voice. False, but the monster’s prey didn’t need to know that.   
_{Lance, can’t you see I’m only looking out for you. Can’t you see that there was another way out, another way where you didn’t have to depend on Keith.}_

It took Lance’s silence as victory, but there was more to be won than an acceptance of his standing as a failure.   
_{Are you going to tell them the truth?}_  
The truth? Lance met its eyes, the yellow medallions fixing with Lance’s pale blue ones. _{Will you tell the others that Keith had to rescue you? That you were targeted?}_

_{What would they think}_ it said, seemingly to itself. _{What would they do if they thought that the Aliens targeted you, not Keith, because even they saw you as the weaker, lesser Paladin?}  
I’m not—  
{You are, don’t fool yourself}_ it spat, forgetting the plan of luring in a false sense of trust first. 

_{I’m sorry Lance, I forgot myself. I care for you, I don’t like seeing you hurt, or letting yourself be hurt by them.}_ The cat spoke the final word in anger, its eyes turned to Keith who was still calling out for the Princess and the Castle. 

The Red Paladin was unaware of Lance’s downward spiral, instead fighting the urge to look at him, knowing that the damage would be clear not that he has regained a sense of control. He’s tired from adrenaline, calm now that he had a moment to catch his breath and calm his rapidly beating heart.  
Lance hasn’t spoken since his bubble of laughter, undoubtedly reflecting on the past events as everyone would. Even Keith lets his mind relapse as he checks the sensors, the charge of the fuel cells, the navigation system, the transponders, incoming feed… 

Keith can fight no longer, relinquishing himself to sigh and lay back in the pilot’s chair. “That was scary, huh?”  
“I’ll say.” Lance’s voice was strong despite the dryness that edged his tone. “I think I’ll be happy if I never see that planet again.”   
“Any time in this lifetime will be too soon,” Keith agreed, the boys laughing softly, ignoring the pain in their chests the motion brought. 

The Red paladin turns, unthinkingly, his head caught on a joke he’s a about to make, something about Dr. Croc Conner’s escape lab experiment or something…   
But what he saw stole his word, his blood running cold. 

Lance’s right eye was permanently closed, sealed from dried blood and the pressure of the swelling above it. The tracks of red ran from a gash in his hairline, little nicks and marks all over his face from stone grazes, where he’s been dragged on bare skin. His nose supports a familiar waterfall, the blood from the suspected crushed nose already a disgusting brown from where it’s dried in the heat of _Torus’s_ sun.   
The grime and muck hides the beginnings of bruises all over his body, not just his face and the thick ribbed markings of finger around his throat, but on skin visible where Lance’s under-suit has been ripped away, the material as frayed as Lance’s conscious, slipping in and out of understanding, all while Keith talks to him.   
But his words have stopped, mind catching on comforting words to pay attention to the marks lower down. 

Lance has got a graze running up one side of his body, the skin bleeding underneath, not quite broken. More damage circles around to his back, but that is hidden under what under-suit remains and the shadows formed between Paladin and pilot seat, his body slumped awkwardly. 

“Hey Keith.”   
Keith draws his eyes away, finding Lance’s face. He’s smiling, his eyes dropped in tiredness. “It’s not that bad. Just a little theatre make up, nothing more.” He waves an arm around, as if trying to bat Keith’s worry from the air.   
When the Red’s frown doesn’t drop, Lance’s voice turns serious. “Keith, honestly, it doesn’t hurt. Okay, maybe it does, just a little bit, but it’s not as bad as it looks. I’ve been through worse, _hell,_ we’ve all been through _worse.”_ He sits himself up properly, rifling with something in the storage unit at the front of the pod. There’s condensed food goo cubes and a vial of something pink. Like lemonade. 

“We’re both fine—”  
“Define _fine—”_  
“We’re both _fine,”_ Lance repeated, his words steady, eyebrows frowned slightly underneath the mask of blood. “You’re fine, I’m fine and that is all that matters.” Their eyes are locked together, a series of emotions playing on Lance’s face before he settled with a loose smirk that dropped when Keith didn’t abandon his worry. “We’re both fine and that is all they need to know.”   
“They? Who’s _they?”_  
“The team.” 

Keith’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “The _team?_ You mean you don’t want to tell them—”  
“No I don’t—”  
“But how will you explain—”  
“My injuries?” Lance looked away for a moment, to the shuttles dash, nodding as he agreed with his thoughts. “The aliens. They’re pirates. They jumped us when we split up, but that’s all the truth we tell them. I didn’t get captured or kidnapped or beaten up—”  
“But you did—”  
“Keith just listen to me!” 

Lance is angry, his voice filled with the same emotion he used on Ovule back in the cave. Keith says nothing and lets him continue.  
“We can’t go back and tell the team that I got kidnapped and that you _killed_ aliens trying to get me out. We’re protectors of the Universe against the Galra, and _yes_ against threats like the pirates, but we don’t _kill._ The whole reason I can sleep at night is because when we fight the Galra, I know that practically eighty percent of the time they’re just robots, and not actual living beings, just programmed toasters armed with laser guns. And the cats we do end up fighting don’t get killed because we’ve usually managed to defeat them before they join the fight, or they retreat, or… or _heck,_ I don’t know, but I just know that we don’t kill them.” 

Keith is beginning to understand Lance’s thinking, surprised that, despite his injuries, Lance is still focusing on the bigger picture:

_Voltron._  
How the universe perceives Voltron.   
How the team perceive them, and themselves as a whole. 

“You didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t get captured. We were separated to make the mission faster, got caught up in a sandstorm and fell into an ambush. We got the parts we needed and we got away. End of story.”   
Lance drank the pink lemonade and handed Keith a cube of food. “If they ask questions, just don’t tell them anything that will make them think we can’t work together. I can’t keep causing more problems.” 

The words are such a surprise that Keith can barely stumble out a question. But it is ignored as a beeping signal flashes on the dash and the module lights up with the image of Pidge. “Hey guys nice to see you’re— Woah, Lance are you alright? What happened?” Keith looks to Lance, but the Blue Paladin is already wearing a smile that stands to cover his wounds. “Just a little run in with space pirates. We had to leave behind the shield generator, but we’ve got everything else.”   
“Space pirates? You mean the same—?”  
“No idea, but seems like they’ve got a grudge against Voltron. You mind opening the hangar door? We’re two clicks out.”   
“Sure thing, meet you there. Do you need Coran to start warming up a healing pod?”  
“Yeah, if you don’t mind. I could use some beauty sleep.”

The feed cut off, Lance quickly turning to Keith as the Castle of Lions came into view. “Keith, promise me you won’t say anything.”   
“Lance—”  
“Promise me.”   
“Alright, I promise.”


	6. A Want To Be Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and Keith return from their Mission on Torous, tired and beaten, in well need of rest. But Lance is determined to keep the details of the failed mission a secret. Keith has promised him he’ll hold his tongue, but that doesn’t mean it will stop the Paladins asking their own questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning, the time frame starts jumping now, simply because I’m trying to recreate the illusion that that Lance is losing his grip on reality, yet still make it easy to understand what is going on.

**System:** Nairn  
 **Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

It is heavy. That was the only way he could define it.  
A heaviness of nothing that sat in his chest, somewhere between his lungs and his ribcage that couldn’t be found when he pressed against his heart with a flat palm, but only acknowledge when he lays awake at night, not sleeping, when he laughs too loud and the emptiness hurts, when he tries to eat, to talk, to _breathe._

_“Don’t worry about it, I’m just feeling a little tired.”_

Lance had asked Coran about it, and let the man scan his body, but no anomalies were found, despite the ever-present weight that sat heavy on Lance’s chest. 

_“It’s okay, I promise.”_

He was forced to carry it around with him, fighting the feeling as it spread through his body; a storm cloud that thundered in his mind, threatening the rain and torrent winds that would batter his conscious until he had no more energy to fight the typhoon that knocked him on his feet over and over again.

_“I’m fine.”_

He could feel it. Not just the manacles weighing him down, but the thin thread of the safety line he grasped onto. It was the only thing that held him from the abyss of failure, taut and straining, frays of the filament-like strands rotting away as his hope dwindled over time, knowing something so fragile could never hold him up forever. One day he was bound to fall. 

_“I’m fine.”_

Sometimes, Lance would just hang there, swaying in the non-existent breeze, enjoying the motion. It would seep into his core, into his memories, reminding him of times when he was an innocent child back on Earth.  
Young, barely four years old, legs wrapped around the slack of a rope the trailed beneath the driftwood plank that they’d tied to the tree in their backyard. They’d done it themselves, proud of their work as Luis and Maya climbed the Framboyan Tree with a length of rope, testing the limbs of the red flower tree whilst Lance played beneath them, watching his siblings swing like monkeys in the branches too high for him to reach.   
There was an emptiness back then too. He’d stood, a hand on his chest, the smile falling from his lips as he looked up, asking why he hurt? Why was his chest hurting? _Why?_

_“I’m fine.”_

Other times, when the nights were long and the memories a distance fog before the setting sun, Lance would franticly claw at the thread that held him, crying out for help as he watched the fraying strands rot and peel away from the main arm that reached up and held firm on the black rock too far from his reach.   
He could hear the voices below, laughing at him; feel their hands, hot and scaly, pulling at the chains that bound his ankles. Lance, desperate not to fall prey to the shadows, fought with all he had. He slammed fists against the manacles; he kicked against the black rock hoping it would smash the metal to pieces. 

He’d kick at the monsters too, hit then with clenched fists as they pulled and pulled, trying to drag him down into the darkness he knew he would never rise from. 

_“I’m fine.”_

Sometimes, when the dawn would light the skies and push the monsters back into the fissure, burning the scaly grey hands that would drift away like ashen nightmares.   
On those days, Lance could pull himself up, climbing the rope, breaking the links of the chains and unbind his feet. The restraints would remain, but they no longer dragged him down or fought him when he climbed and climbed, when he looked down with a smile to see the bottomless chasm far, far below. 

On days when the stuffiness in his chest was a second thought, a memory ignored and a pain forgotten, he could climb up, so close to the cliff face he could almost reach the smooth, black rock of stability.   
But fingertips grabbing, snatching at the rock would only make it crumble like sand around him, the cliff top so much further as he realised this was just a ledge to which he could hold onto, for only a moment. 

Exhaustion plagued him. Sleep called to him.   
And Lance, who couldn’t hold on…

_And fell._

The thread saved him. It kept him suspended.   
Sheer will kept him fighting. Sheer will and the fear of what may lay in the depths of the void that floated beneath his feet.   
He could hear it, the monster. It would call to him, it’s voice soft and gentle, like a snake that sings as it ensnares it’s victim, coiling it’s body around him before Lance can even see the trap.   
It would call to Lance, the gentle tinkling of morning rain upon wet sand, the sound of waves rushing over smooth rocks that hid the broken glass beneath bubbles and white wash. 

It took on the voice of his mother when he missed her, the voice of his siblings, calling out for big brother to come play. 

In nightmares, it was Zarkon calling to him.   
_“They don’t need you Lance. But I do.  
I need you Lance.” _

The tortured sounds of his friends screaming his name as they were devoured by the snake that curled around them, curled around Lance’s legs and pulled him down to join them in their final moments.

Hunk’s voice, Pidge’s voice. Allura, Shiro, Coran, Keith. 

_“Help us Lance!  
Why won’t you come to us? _

_Save us.”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Lance awoke to darkness. Panic held his breath prisoner as he clawed for familiarity, for the stability of the black rock he knew far above, out of reach but sought none the less.

He felt the pressure of something against his face, a light brush of weight over his eyes as Lance clawed at them, his fingers raking away the sleep mask. The nightmare had turned it into a blindfold, another link in the chain that dragged him down to the darkness.   
But as soon as the mask was gone, Lance was gifted with sight, staring up at the ghostly blue ceiling of his sleep chambers. The painted glow-in-the-dark stars hung, dismal and weak against the faint sheen of metal, providing no light, and no comfort in the gloom. 

Lance growled a curse to himself, rolling back over with a press of his cheek into his pillow. This was the fifth time tonight he had awoken from nightmares.   
The gag was getting old, _real quick._

The room is dark, darker than Lance liked and he holds himself for a moment as his eyes adjust to the dimness, not bothering to force his eyes close and pretend to sleep, hoping he’d be given another hour or two before he has to wake up and face another day of _“I’m fine.”_

The feeling of Zarkon’s eyes on him cling to him in his conscious and he fears rolling over, to see the Galra standing there, the sight of the dead Paladins at his feet, eyes rolled back in their heads, skin pale and bloodless in death.   
The fear that grips the boy is irrational and he knows, he _knows_ that his friends aren’t dead, that his bedroom is empty save for himself, that it is just the ghost of his nightmare lingering, and when he turns, he’ll see the room it empty. 

The room _is_ empty, but it doesn’t calm Lance’s heart. He’s never been afraid of the dark before. Maybe once as a kid, when Mama was yet to come home and the thunder outside was loud a frightening; reminding him of his father, who came with belt and fist and bottle in hand.   
Lance clings to the duvet, wishing it was the warmth of Luis’s body that held him, sharing the older’s bed, waiting for the storm to end and Mama to come home to them.   
Every child is allowed to be scared, he tells himself. _But not a Paladin of Voltron._

But still, he remains on his bed, his feet not yet dangling over the side for Monsters and Shadows to grab at. He is sat now, back pressed to the wall of the cubby hole in which his bed sits, comforter pulled up to his neck, eyes scanning the deep shadows for a sign that something was out of place. 

His room is just the same old room; filled with odd knick knacks he had found, collected, _built_ in his spare time. His own hand-drawn star map it peeling off the wall slightly, surrounded by the various posters he had brought from the space mall, art works he’d been given by children of planets he has saved. There is a poster of himself, cheesy pictures of old time bands, neon pineapples and palm trees on beaches in front of classic sunsets that reminded Lance of home. He’d seen it, and he just _had_ to get it. 

Lance had bought other stuff too. There are too many pairs of sunglasses on his nightstand, something that resembles a dream-catcher hanging off his wardrobe door and a faded shirt that’s got one of the original prints of _“The Beatles”_ on it. He never actively listened to their music, but he knows his Mama enjoyed their songs, and always turned the radio up when one of them carried out over the sound waves. They had danced together with her to their song: _“Twist and Shout,”_ one of her favourites that she used to dance with, alongside her Abuela.  
Lance waves to air to rid himself of the song before it can permanently lodge itself into his mind, instead throwing his legs over the side of his bed, ignoring the shudder as cold air breathes against his bare legs, the press of cold floor under his toes.   
He firmly ignores the voice in his head that tells him monsters love to eat little boy’s toes. He shoves his feet into his lion slippers, ignoring the chastising words that tell him he’s being childish, that he should grow up and stop fearing the dark and the monsters that hide under his bed.   
But the words only enforce the vision of a white scaled hand reaching out, sharp talons digging into Lance’s ankle, the raspy tone of Ovule calling to him. _“I’ll keep this one to myself.”_

Lance pulled back from the nightmare, stumbling on a stack of Altean texts that piled near his headboard, the boy crashing to the floor in a tumble of limbs, a cry pulled from his mouth as something hard stabbed into his gut.   
His own elbow was the culprit, pressed awkwardly from the way he’d landed on it, easy to remove as Lance pushed himself onto his back, a glare thrown towards the emptiness and the fallen pile of books that had made up his nightstand.   
He reads them before he sleeps, soothed by something that was once a chore. He would read to his siblings back on Earth, so much that the notion of doing so before he himself slept had become a habit.   
The content was both filling and empty. He learnt a lot from the Altean’s text, still needing a cipher now and against just to learn the more difficult words.   
But now, they’re on the floor, fallen, like him, his little trinkets that sat on top also littering the floor from where they had fallen too.   
They were gifts given to him from Aliens who he has helped, amongst trinkets. There are weird shaped rocks that pulsate light when warmed, shells from beaches, weird and wonderful potted plants that bloom neon flowers at night, and smell like caramel and honey. 

Lance lies there, a little while longer, staring up at the glow-in-the dark stars, painted with the neon sap of the plants, the galaxy sketched out roughly but not to scale.   
Lance doesn’t care. They remind him of the summer house back on Earth, where he, his brother and his sister had made mountain out of furniture, just to reach the sloping roof of their shared bedroom ceiling, plastering it with those stick-on plastic shapes bought from the 99p store on the corner.   
The memory made his chest hurt just as much as the homesickness he felt when staring at the crumpled picture of his family, always kept safe in the right front pocket of his jeans.   
On missions, he tucked it into his armour, wishing himself luck before piloting Blue to what he wished would be victory.   
His good luck charm had always done right by him, but still, the feeling of emptiness wouldn’t leave, no matter how much he looked at it, or promised that he would go home. 

Before he can drown in melancholy, Lance forces himself up off the floor, restacking his bedside table, deciding to put his gifts up on the shelf next to his game console as it blinks at him. He finds his controller abandoned at the end of his bed and puts that away too, letting his tired body wear itself out with the chore of cleaning his room at some ungodly hour. 

It’s only fifteen minutes later he dumps his body back on his bed hoping for more sleep. He’s tied his room and washed the creams off his face. The idea of a shower wasn’t welcoming, and then Lance knew that today was going to be a bad day. It was these, where Lance didn’t have the energy to wash, to dress, to smile throughout the day, where he’d find himself on his holographic beach with a longing and a hole in his chest…  
It would’ve been better if he hadn’t woken up. 

Lance rolled over; begging his mind to unlatch and fade into sleep, but such comfort eluded him. He didn’t stay laid there for long. Maybe a minute or two, perhaps less, until the frustration of his own inability to even _sleep_ (a natural human function) got too much and he, once again, flung his legs off the side of the bed.   
Hunger is calling him to the kitchen, but at the sight of his uniform, he changes his mind. 

“Are you coming?”  
It’s too the creature he spoke, stirring him from its place on the bed. It raises a head, feigning the play of waking as it looks over to the boy that is fully dressed.  
 _{Where are you going?}_  
To train.   
_{Is that wise? You’re still not healed from your last mission.}_

Lance says nothing as he leaves his room, rolling his shoulders to rid himself of the ache of a bad sleep, following the muted light of the Castle system, the motion detectors registering Lance’s movement and allowing light to fill the chamber. Not at full intensity, Lance is pleased to note, his eyes not yet ready for the full brightness of the registered _“normal daylight hours”_ Pidge and Coran had programmed the Castle to run at. 

The Paladin hears the gentle rush of sliding metal as a door closes, turning to look back at the chambers to see who else is awake. Instead of Human, or Half-Galra, it is Lance’s companion who pads the cold Castle floor, coming to his side. 

“I didn’t think you would join me.” The creature shakes its head. _{I told you Osito, I’ll never leave you.}_ Lance gifts him a smile and a pat to his head. “Thanks.” 

They continue on together, in silence. Yet Lance cannot stop himself from turning back towards the closed door of the Red Paladin. Neither had spoken to each other since the mission to _Torous._ Not that Lance particularly wanted to spend any time with him, _(okay that’s a lie, he always enjoyed spending time with Keith, except when they were fighting)_ but it was obvious Keith was keeping his distance.   
It wasn’t a part of the promise Lance held him to. He just wished for silence, although the Red Paladin must’ve mistaken it for silence between the pair of them too. At least he didn’t talk about it. 

The other Paladins didn’t talk about it either, and left both Paladins to their own devices. Of course, Lance wasn’t even meant to be awake yet, he was still meant to be in the Cryo-pod. But luckily for him, he’d fooled the Altean Tech with his _Eyre_ vial, and the scan simply closed the wound on his arm and stopped the bleeding to his not-fractured nose.   
Coran, a little surprised by the thirteen Dobosh cycle, was happy for Lance to take the next day off to sleep while he ran tests on the pods to check their working capability. 

They were working fine of course, and had only reduced Lance’s time healing because his body wasn’t in pain. Thank you _Eyre._

But Lance’s body _was_ still in pain. Despite the freshest wound being healed, Lance’s back and gut was still one giant scar; a hideous mark that covered his back. He’d finally managed to gain a glimpse of it in the reflection of his mirror, eyes wide at the horror of once beautiful skin.   
From the base of his shoulder blade running down to the base of his spine was inflamed and horrible. Burnt skin, all wrinkled and warped; scar tissue now a permanent tattoo as it tore over bronze flesh, turning it dark and bloody, even now that the skin around it had healed from the grazing of being dragged over uneven ground.   
It was red and blue and black and purple, slivers of white where blood had been purged like poison from his skin. Pale pink patches bloomed pus pockets that were excruciating to clean, despite Lance’s attempts to wash it with feather-light presses. He feared infection, feared deeper injury.   
But he could not cry; it was his fault after all.   
This scar was his punishment, and his reminder that he was a failure. _Always a failure._

_{Osito?}_  
The monster called to him, its tongue curling around the self-worth that crumbled in its jaw. Lance couldn’t feel the poisonous sting; wiping away tears with a hand, his lips a steady line as he turned his back on the Paladins and continued towards the training hall. 

They hadn’t talked to him since he left the pod; ignoring him like Keith. Of course they’d think he ticked off the Red Paladin like usual, giving him space before they ripped into him about team work and not getting ambushed and causing more problems.   
It was strange the lectures weren’t received straight away, and Lance certainly hadn’t gone looking for them. Perhaps the silence was a new method; _“we’re running out of patience Lance. Learn quickly or we’ll be forced to find someone new. Someone better.”_

_{Leave them be Osito. If they don’t care about you, don’t exhaust yourself worrying about them.}_

“Yeah, you’re right,” Lance sighed, a hand laid on the back of the creature beside him.   
When had he stopped thinking it to be a monster, derived from the same darkness back on Earth, the same the lurked in the pit in his nightmares, yet all together different?   
He had helped him to escape from the Aliens, stayed beside him in the Sandstorm when he thought abandoned by Keith, staying beside him even now, keeping him company, caring for him when the team did not.   
It was hard to hate the only comfort he had. 

The creature was bigger now; no longer his back arcing at a peak at his knee, once the size of an ordinary housecat, with its long tail and black fur. 

Now, it is taller, the curvature of its body in line with Lance’s hip, its body and long neck covered in a blanket of feathers that are warm in colour. Not just ivory black, but dark red and copper.   
Large quill fins decorate the base of its tail; burnt orange to contrast with the obsidian, whilst small plumes of dowry circle its neck, flecked with greys and brighter red and gold.   
The cat like features remain, in paws that press down to the castle floor, the sleekness of its body as it moves, its tail still with the mind of its own as it swishes back and forth behind. 

The creature turns its head, regarding Lance with a look he can’t quite place; three eyes blinking in the light that grows the longer they walk, away from the sleep chambers and towards the Training Deck. “What is it?”  
 _{Are you sure that you want to go and train now? By yourself}_

“It’s not like I can sleep,” Lance shrugs. And he doesn’t want to. Every time he tries, he would just be thrust back into a nightmare.   
He’d be stood in that dark corridor with the two pirates staring back at him, his body nothing but pain and stars as the ship around him explodes into nothing but light and dark, Lance’s body spinning violently at control, his arms flailing for a hand to hold as the glass shatters and he is flung into the endless abyss of dark and cold and loneliness.  
He can’t scream for help, he can’t be heard by the Paladins that scream as their own bodies, trapped in the wreckage of the ship, burn and vanish in the flames, Lance unable to help them as he falls through nothing for eternity. 

Other times, Lance was back in that cave on _Torous,_ far from space and the endless void, but once more alone in the darkness. No enemy, no pain. Just bound to a loneliness that swallowed him whole.   
He would call out to Keith to help him, still here, hoping the Red Paladin was searching for him, hoping to be found and taken home, back to the team that were waiting for them both.   
And Keith was there, his voice talking to him from the shadows. Laughing at him. 

_“Me? Help you? Why should I?”_  
And there he was, hand in hand with Ovule as Lance lay trussed at their feet, gagged and helpless. Keith’s eyes glow yellow in the firelight, his purple hand grasping the Crocodile’s, reaching out to take the small bag that tinkled when shook.

_“Keith help me,”_ Lance would cry, lips moving around the gag that hurts his mouth from where it’s tied too tight.   
And Keith would laugh. _“You’re so stupid, don’t you realise that? Can’t you see we don’t want you anymore, that the team doesn’t want you? They sent me here to get rid of you once and for all.”_

Lance doesn’t want to hear it, but Keith kneels beside him, a hand on his throat to keep eyes on him. _“They wanted me to kill you, you know. Quick, easy. Hunk told me to be merciful, Pidge doesn’t care. But I found a way that I can be free of you, but so you still suffer.”_  
Lance shakes his head, crying, but Keith won’t stop. _“It’s punishment, for not being good enough. Because you’re never good enough. You don’t even deserve to stand in my shadow, but you’re still there, like a parasite, running around everyone like a puppy, trying to be loved when no one could care less.”_

It’s not real, Lance knows it’s not real.   
But when he’s trapped in the nightmare, it’s so vivid, so lucid that Lance can’t break dream from reality and he’s hurt by the words that strike fear into his heart.   
He knows his friends will never hurt him, that Keith or any of them would sell him out, or want him dead, but when he’s trapped in that nightmare, there is something about the coldness that Lance believes in. And he doubts the trust in his friends.

But the worst nightmare of all is the thread. 

Lance is tied to it; the silver line that keeps him suspended between the blue sky, above the gaping chasm of darkness far beneath. He hold tights, calling out for help, for anyone to help him hold on just that little bit longer.   
But no one comes. And after hours and hours of holding on to nothing but the last remains of hope… _Lance can’t anymore._  
He lets go and is swallowed by the abyss. 

Something sharp scratched at his soul, searching for weak spots. Lance pulled away from the darkness, curling in on himself, desperate to build a wall between himself and the nightmares.

_{…-ance!}_ Someone is calling out to him but the words don’t reach Lance’s understanding, blocking out everything as the emptiness swells inside his chest; the darkness searching into the boy’s vulnerability. 

Lance built his wall higher, but they crumbled at the edges. Lance poured all of his strength against the booming laughter, but no matter how quickly he builds it, the darkness seeps into the brickwork, crumbling it down, searching for vulnerable spots.   
He imagines and ocean around him, a storm at sea. Clouds pelt the abyss with biting rain, the torrent of fierce underwater currents washing away the ashen monsters as they wail in defeat. 

_{Osito, hold on.}_  
Lance pressed himself into the warmth of the creature, fingers holding tight to the plumes of feathers, listening to the voices fade until once more, he is back at the Castle, on his knees in the empty corridor, fighting for his breathe. The searing pain in his gut has stolen his gut and Lance knows it’s not to the training hall he needs to head.   
“Help me up. We need to go to the infirmary.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Keith shifted uneasily in his seat, trying to focus landing the shuttle than on Lance who was trying to make himself look more presentable. He was cursing about the ripped undergarment, muttering something about wishing he’d brought a spare suit like he has with Blue. He was looking out the windows too, his usual quirky smile hidden under a look of fear and uncertainty. He said nothing else, downing another shot of pink lemonade.

The shuttle’s feet touched down to the landing pad, the engines dismissing their flames with a rush of air as the cooling process began at the turn of the kill switch.   
The team were gathering outside, clearly summoned by Pidge after they had finished their transmission with Lance. Coran wasn’t present to begin with, but by the time the hatch was sliding back, allowing both the Blue and Red Paladins to exit, the Doctor was marching quickly towards them, looking a little distressed.   
Luckily there were no Trigamons present, but then Pidge had the smarts to deter the little aliens away from a possible sight of injured Paladins. What Lance had said rang true; they couldn’t show Voltron as being weak. And that included each other. 

“Keith?” Lance shifted beside him, catching the Red’s attention before he climbed out of the shuttle pod. He was looking down at his own abused attire, hands moving to conceal the marks. “I know.”  
“Keith, you can’t tell them the truth, or how bad I got hurt. You all have bigger things to worry about other than me.”

Lance met his eyes. There’s no goofy grin, no quirky sarcasm to his tone. His hair, usually immaculate and model-standard, is curled at the edges from sweat, blood dried and darkened in places.   
The bruises and nicks on his face don’t look too bad now Lance has wiped away the blood with his spit, hoping to lessen the shock of his appearance. But still, he looks pretty bad. 

Keith stares at him. He doesn’t know what to say.   
Silence is usually his fallback answer when faced with questions or conversation he doesn’t feel prepared to participate in, but now when words are needed he has none to offer. He should tell Lance that _“of course they’ll worry about you, you’re part of the team, you’re just as important.”_ But for some reason, he can’t figure out how to say it.   
Instead, he grabs his jacket from the foothold of the shuttle cabin. He had taken it to wear in case the armour was too stuffy on _Torous,_ but considering the fire fight with the aliens, he was glad he hadn’t swapped his attire. “You’re not going to be able to hide all of it, but throw this on. Mind your shoulders though, they’re still bleeding.”   
“Oh, uh, thanks,” Lance says, taking the jacket. 

“I want that back by the way,” Keith snapped, jumping up from his chair and dropping from the cockpit before Lance had a chance to thank him or say something mushy. _Oh god, he wasn’t acting like himself. He needed to get his emotions under control!_

Keith jumped onto the wing of the shuttle, swinging down to the ground; a hand on the pod to keep him standing when a wave of dizziness washed over him. It wasn’t just Lance who needed a pod, but him too. Either that or a good bloody sleep.

Once out of the pod, Keith caught sight of huge scorch marks and inflicted damage that was painted all along the belly of the shuttle. It ran from the nose, all the way to the tail, even carving up the metal on the underside of the wings. _So that was what had Coran so worried._

“Keith? What happened? Are you two alright?” Allura asked; rushing forward with the team, yet her questions quickly drowned out by Pidge, who ran to the shuttle, staring with a gaping mouth, a hand pressed against the burn marks. “Holy shit Keith, what did you do, play chicken with an asteroid field?”  
“Nothing that fancy,” Keith replied, throwing the Green Paladin the same look as Shiro who had given up on admonishing them for their excessive use of curse words.   
But Pidge ignored the subtle little glares sent their way, instead scrambling onto the wing. Hunk gave them a boost as they both assessed the damage, until the Green’s voice broke the irritated mutterings. 

“Hey Lance, are you— Huh?” The gremlin’s face twisted into a frown, their head cocked to the side, toes scraping on the wing, before they found a foothold on the Pod’s air-vents. Pidge vaulted up once more, now with a clear view of the inner cockpit. 

“Lance, why are you wearing Keith’s jacket?”   
He had already pulled it on before Pidge could see his damaged body, and although the idea of covering such wounds was done as not to shook the Paladins when they caught a sight of him, it still left the Blue Paladin centre stage. 

Everyone watched him drop from the cockpit, Keith unable to watch him, his own stomach twisting when he thought of Lance forcing himself through the pain to keep everyone from worrying for him. A useless endeavour, because they’d worry once they found out the extent of his injuries once the Cryo-pod scanned him. 

Despite trying to hide the wounds under Keith’s jacket, he was unable to hide the pain, a grimace pulled on tight lips when he landed awkwardly following the jump from the shuttle. He steadied his hand on the wing like Keith had done, yet didn’t remove it once he was standing upright. Or, leaning on the wing, because he wasn’t standing on his own. 

“Lance, how badly are you hurt?” Hunk asked, moving in to offer the Blue a hand. Lance, the idiot, waved him off. “Not too badly. Just a little bruises. I got kicked in the stomach but that’s the worst of it really.”   
Hunk scowled. “Lance, you’ve got blood all over you face.”   
“Oh, yeah, that too.” 

What concerned Keith the most though, was the boy’s smile. It was no different to normal. It was almost _perfect._  
There was the faint hint of pain in the way he stood, but his tone was light and happy, there was no rush of air when he pushed away from the shuttle and approached the group, hobbling on an uneven gait, no matter how much he tried to walk normally. Shiro stepped forward to speak, but Lance ignored him, throwing his head over his shoulder instead, to look pointedly at Pidge’s hand that remained pressed against the damage of the shuttle. “Sorry about the ship Pidge, I got a bit over-excited whilst flying. I’ll make it up to you later, okay?”   
Which was a complete lie because Lance hadn’t piloted once. It was all Keith’s doing, but the bloody idiot was taking the blame for that as well. He knew Keith knew because Lance fucking winked at him as he passed. 

“Cryo-pod,” was Coran’s only word when he stood forward, halting Lance’s steps. “Now? Coran I wanted to take a bath—”  
“Now,” Coran said, leaving no room for argument, offering an arm. Lance sighed, but took it anyway. “Honestly, I’m fine, you’re making too much of a fuss.”  
“Pidge said you requested a healing pod.”  
“Yeah, for _beauty sleep._ Because I’m tired, Coran, you would be too if you had to lug around scrap metal for the past seven vargas.”   
The wittering trailed off as Coran and Lance headed to the infirmary, the hangar door closing behind them. 

“Alright, what was that about?” Shiro asked, turning to Keith. Everyone looked to him, with the same expectant expressions like he had all the answers. But Lance had sworn him to secrecy.   
Well, _sort of._

“We got ambushed. Lance took the worst of it,” the boy offered, moving to the back of the pod to open the hatch and start unloading the gear they’d collected before the attack, if only it was for something to do.   
“But you’re bleeding,” Allura says, pointing to a splatter of blood on Keith’s forearm.   
“It’s not mine,” he said, shrugging again, checking the darkened splatter. He feels guilt for relief when the black substance is still wet, smudged by his fingers. “It’s not Lance’s either.”   
“Then whose is it?”  
“Dunno. One of the pirates that jumped Lance? I wasn’t really focused on anything other than getting us both out of there. 

It took a bit of effort, getting him out, much longer than I’d like to admit, and after he got corner. That’s why he’s worse off.”   
Keith stopped, wondering if he was crossing a line somewhere, telling the team too much when Lance asked him not to. He hastened to lessen the blow. “He doesn’t want us to worry though, so he’s playing it cool. Like he said, I think he’s more tired than anything.” 

_“You didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t get captured. We were separated to make the mission faster, got caught up in a sandstorm and fell into an ambush. We got the parts we needed and we got away. End of story.”_

“But is he okay?” Hunk looked torn between staying with the team and running after his best friend, to double check that he was alright.   
Keith looked to him, words lodged in his throat.   
_Alright? No, he wasn’t alright. He was kidnapped, beaten and almost killed. Before that, the silence, the space a part, the fact that only nine vargas ago he was blown up in an explosion, given no time to rest and then practically got caught up in another life-or-death situation without the team to back him. Again._

“Yeah, he’s good,” he lied. 

“Keith?” Shiro’s stern tone told him he had seen through the boy’s deception.  
“He’s…. oh, I don’t know. Off? Not really himself?” Keith threw up his hand, tossing whatever he had back to the scrap pile. “He was quiet. Not Lance quiet but, _quiet_ the entire time, the flight there, while we were searching and… the flight back.”

Keith felt his words filter off, staring at nothing as he tried to explain what he was barely figuring out, trying to stick to the promise about not telling the team that he had killed, the Lance had been taken, that he wasn’t supposed to tell them how badly hurt the boy was, regardless to the fact they’d find out after asking Coran. 

“Even before we got attacked. He was just…. Silent. The entire trip in the shuttle he didn’t say a word. He was tired, must’ve been, he fell asleep,” Keith said, remembering the silence, the jolt awake from the nightmare, the interruption from Pidge and the others, how quickly he lapsed back into the quietness. “And then, on the planet he wandered off by himself without saying anything and just… got things done.” 

Keith looked to his brother-figure, their eyes meeting as memories latched onto the same event. “What did you say to him? Before we left, I mean.”  
“Just the usual, about listening, playing as part of the team. I didn’t even dig that deep considering….” The Black Paladin glanced at Hunk, then to Blue who was staring at the direction her Paladin had gone. “We were at odds already. I was worried after the explosion, for all of us, and him. But I don’t think it came off too well. He was trying to leave and it got me angry, like he didn’t care that he’d almost got himself hurt and was trying to pass it off. I… I said too much. I just warned him to be careful because we weren’t going to be there for backup.” 

They all looked at the hangar doors, closed, concealing the sight of their tired and dejected sharpshooter.   
“Something’s obviously wrong, other than his injuries, if he’s not being acting himself since before the… ambush,” Allura said, her words carrying in the silence as they thought, the inflection of her voice raising on the final word, implicating she didn’t believe Keith’s story about the Pirates. Keith glared at her but she missed it.

Yet her words rang true and Keith couldn’t keep the scowl upon his face. This behaviour was indeed odd. Lance was always the life of the party, always the one to come and comfort his friends when they were down, despite just being in battle, or exhausted after training, or being caught out teary eyed staring at the stars.   
Keith racked his head for the last time he saw Lance openly feeling dejected, be it after any hard mission, even one that left him badly hurt. But he rarely paid more-than-necessary attention to the boy for his own security, and found his thoughts coming up perfectly blank. And he was sure the others all realised the same. 

Shiro was the first to break the silence. “Well it looks like he doesn’t want to talk about it. Everyone gets down days, even Lance. So, let’s just respect his wishes and give him some space, and if he wants to talk about it, they he’ll talk about it. But we shouldn’t pry if he doesn’t want us to.”   
“So what? We’re just going to ignore him?”   
“No Hunk, that’s not what I meant,” Shiro said, raising his arms to defend against the Yellow Paladin’s sudden anger directed towards him. Hunk was as sweet as a teddy bear, but once crossed, Shiro knew he would have an enemy for life. 

“Lance knows that we’re all here for him. If he wants to talk, he’ll come to us. If he doesn’t, we shouldn’t push him to. It’s his choice,” the Black Paladin said, experience in his tone. 

The boy looked away, not happy with the assessment. Shiro laid a hand on the paladin’s shoulder. “Don’t worry Hunk. My bet is that he’s just trying not to worry us.”   
“It’s why he made me promise not to say anything,” Keith agreed, nodding his head. Then slapped a hand to his mouth. “Oh, _quiznak,_ I wasn’t meant to tell you,” he said, eyes wide when everyone turned. Shiro suppressed a smile. “See Hunk. He’s just looking out for us.”   
“I wish he’d look out for himself,” the boy huffed, but he did look happier than before. Well, maybe happy wasn’t the right observation. Accepting perhaps. 

Pidge folded their arms, anger prominent on their face. But when they spoke, there was worry clear in their tone. “This is why I prefer dealing with Robots compared to humans. If there’s a problem, usually shutting it off and rebooting it does the trick.”   
Keith nodded, knowing how many times he felt better after a good nights’ sleep. Maybe that was all was needed. A _“beauty sleep”_ in the Cryo-pod, to work off all the stress. After all, they’d had a busy twelve hours; two attacks from the pirates and practically no rest in between. 

Keith pulled his head back onto track, looking to their leader, who was speaking once more. “Alright, so we’re back to normal then. Lance is resting, Allura, you’re—”  
“With the Trigamon.” Shiro nodded turning to the other two. “Pidge, Hunk, you’re still working on the Cargo ship. And Keith,” he said turning to the Red. “Do you need a healing pod? You were fighting too.”   
“I’m good, just a shower and some food will do me fine.”   
“Alright, when you’re showered, I’ll meet you in the dining hall, and we’ll debrief about the mission.”   
“Got it.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The monster stands between Lance and the door to the training deck, eyeing him with concern. _{We don’t have to train. We can—}_  
“No,” Lance says. “I need to train. I need to get stronger so I won’t be a burden again.”  
It tilts its head, playing the role of comforter. _{You’re not a burden,}_ it says, knowing Lance will dispute the words himself. And he does. Fervently.  
“I need to get stronger. What happened on _Torous_ was my fault, and I ended up relying on Keith to get me out, even if I didn’t know he was coming to save me. I need to be able to save myself; I can’t keep relying on everyone else.”  
 _{And you believe that?}_  
“What is there to believe? It’s the truth. They’re all so strong, all so good at something, and I’m just me, struggling to keep up with them. If I stop, for even a second, I’m going to get left behind.  
“I know they all don’t think I’m worthy to be a Paladin, and if I keep screwing up then they’re bound to replace me sooner rather than later, so yeah, I’ve got to get stronger. I have to put my all in, I’ve got to reach their level, I can’t slack, I can’t take things easy, we’re not kids, this isn’t a game, _Lance this is war.”_

The boy stopped, eyes wide, realising the words he had been told again and again, the words he tells himself over and over had been spoken out loud.   
He stopped, took a breath, tried again. “They can’t trust me at the moment. I keep screwing up. The cargo-ship, on _Torous,_ god knows they think me and Keith can’t speak three words without wanting to kill one another. If I can train, I can get stronger and…” He struggled for words, fighting his mind that was pulled in all directions, trying to keep his thoughts aligned. 

“I need to get stronger, so that no one else will have to put their lives on the line because of me.”

The creature nodded, accepting Lance’s reason and stood aside, allowing the doors to open and them both to enter as they lights glowed far above. 

The training routine begins with a verbal instruction from Lance, stood ready in the centre of the room. In his head he hears Shiro’s warning of training without a partner, or training when no one is there to step in if anything goes wrong.   
_Can’t rely on anyone,_ Lance thinks as he throws himself between the two Gladiators that have stepped into the sparring ring. He powers through the simulations of one enemy, two enemies, then six at once, all falling to the floor with fresh scorch marks above their optic sensor. 

The Blue Paladin powered through fight after fight, the only strain to his back pulling him out of the numbness of the _Eleiryian._ Much stronger than _Eyre,_ Lance sought out the extra peace the medicinal gel brought. The ache of working muscles was lost to its effects, letting Lance power on, longer and longer into the morning. 

The creature stood beside the ring, calling out from the side, helping him keep his wits as the numbers of Gladiators slowly increased. And then, when there were too many, it was beside him, the two of them fighting together.   
Gladiators fell with slash marks over their chests, scorch marks layering their bodies when fear called for Lance to pull the trigger again, again, _again,_ so they won’t stand up. 

Hours flew by as Lance moved through the programmes, earning himself higher scores on the training programmes, the _Eleiryian_ numbing the call of sleep, the ache as muscles began to slow and Lance felt limbs drag, twisting this way and that as the final three gladiators advanced.   
Another training programme completed. Another high score.  
But Lance could already headshot a Gladiator from ten foot away, twenty, thirty even. 

_{Why not try without your Bayard? After all, you didn’t have it down in the caves.}_  
Lance’s companion moves closer, nudging the blaster with its nose. Lance looked down to it, the doubt in his chest returning. “I haven’t fought without a weapon before, unless it’s against the others.”   
_{Then it’s the perfect time to try. Don’t worry, we’ll start out slow.}_  
Lance gave an uncertain nod, relinquishing his Bayard back to its holster. 

_{Good. Now we can begin.}._


	7. A Want To Be Stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is keeping his serious injuries a secret from the team, even forgoing proper care in a Cryo-pod, just to train and get stronger. But with the Sugkie in his blood, the constant doses of Eyre and Eleiryian, Lance is losing concept of time. His body won’t be able to cope with the fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so its jumpy and I know I’m swapping POVs, but all of them (relative to Lance and Not-Lance POVs) are in chronological order.

**System:** Nairn  
 **Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

The monster watched as Lance fell forward, his legs catching him before he could crumble into a tangle of limbs on the training deck.   
_{Lance move!}_ The boy did, rolling to his left, just as a gladiator’s blade cleaved downwards, sparking against the floor, right where the Human had been, moments before. “Stop training programme,” he stuttered, rolling away from the robot that had made to follow him, its limbs freezing in the motion of a sweeping gesture towards where he lay. He was breathing heavy, eyes closed, limbs aching despite the Altean medicine coursing through his bloodstream.

The monster despised the taste, the sweetness that marred the perfection of pain and self-hate that soaked the Human’s body in lush, tantalising flavours. 

_{What are you doing Lance?}_ it said, approaching, keeping a distance to pull the salt of worry into its mouth. Lance gave the emotion unconsciously, his eyes pulled into a half-frown, his body struggling to comply from the sheer exhaustion. It was warm on its tongue, much like the boy’s memory of chocolate, yet the savouring taste was crisp, less delicate than sugar but more potent that the bite of lemon. 

“Tired,” the boy said in a rush of air, closing his eyes.   
_{So? The Galra won’t care if you’re tired. They’ll keep fighting. So get up, keep fighting.}_  
“I can’t,” the boy said again, a sob to his words.   
_{You will. Get up!}_ It stamped on the ground, relishing the flinch, it’s maw snapping angrily, excitedly as wonderful tastes joined the feast of perfection. 

And the boy was standing, once again.   
_{Good, now fight.}_

Lance was tired. Neither he nor his companion knew how many earth hours they had spent in the training hall. No one else had woken yet. Or if they were, they certainly hadn’t stumbled upon the Blue Paladin, who was currently digging his own grave with every forced motion to face another Gladiator barehanded. 

The monster watched from the sidelines, allowing Lance to be knocked down twice before he settled on the pretence of pride.   
_{Rest Osito, you’ve done enough for now,}_ he called to the human, using the tone pulled from the warm areas of the boy’s memories, skimming through the tooth-rotting flashes of warmth and light until he found those tinged with a touch of blue.   
Sadness. Another wonderful taste. 

The lullaby it sang was the same sung by the human’s maternal predecessor, calling Lance from crouching to lying, watching eyes close in sweet surrender to the haunting music.   
His walls were wearing. With his own demons, Lance was prey to more than just the monster that had settled inside him. Created from the drugs of the narcotic, unknowingly administered, but administered all the same, it carved the shadows into manacles. 

It had taken form in the darkness, urged on by harsh words that unknowingly dug deep into Lance’s core, feeding the monster that feasted on his soul. It was alive inside him, but only because Lance allowed it. Seeking a shoulder to lean on, seeking an ear to listen, Lance had breathed life into the creature, only as real as his subconscious allowed; fooling his own mind into believing the “cat” had sentience of its own. Perhaps it did.   
But maybe, yes it did. Because Lance wasn’t to know that the creature feasted upon the fear, the worry, the hate, the _pain_ inside of him. If he did, why would he allow the creature to take root inside of him if he knew that its only interest was the destruction of its host? 

It has a name now. _Anadón._  
It didn’t ask for one, but Lance gave it willingly, and in so doing, had cemented it’s presence within Lance’s mind quicker than it could with its ploy of _“love”_ and _“care.”_ Now, it could only grow stronger.   
The human’s own weakness gave it power, the emptiness that swelled inside him giving the monster room to grow and mature inside him.  
It was ink, staining the ocean blacker than black. Like poison in the boy’s veins, it warped his reality.   
The boy actually thought he could _see_ it, _feel_ it, _trust it._  
But hunters prey on weaker beings and it had found a prize within Lance. Killing Lance was the same as killing itself, but it had no other purpose than to fed and grow and die. _It was nothing more than a parasite._

To Lance, Anadón was so much more. He was a warmth and a comfort; a companion when he couldn’t turn to the others for a shoulder, for a hand up. He couldn’t tell them that he was scared, that he felt weak. He couldn’t apologise to them that he was weak, admit to them that he needed help.   
But still Anadón was more. He was a companion for Lance; someone he could open up to, be himself around without the fear of letting the others down. 

_How was he to know it was using him?_

Maybe deep down inside he _did_ know. Anadón was a part of him of course, and although he granted it its own sentience and allowed it to feed off his misery, he accepted the company.   
The hand he held onto was such a sweet poison that Lance couldn’t taste the bitterness.   
And he wouldn’t. Not until it was too late. 

Anadón looked at the child, who rested his eyes and rested his mind.  
 _{Again Osito. We have to get stronger.}_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The day passed with the urgency of a lazy Sunday. Tasks were monotonous, training monotonous, even eating was mundane and a chore, tiring Keith quicker than the effort of slicing his way through too many Gladiators on the Training Deck. He gave Shiro a complete rundown of the trip, although he omitted certain truths, like Lance getting captured and his own administration of execution during the rescue.  
It was better to leave that as a secret between the pair. Besides, what was to be done if the others found out? They couldn’t change the past, so there was no need to tell the entire truth.  
Shiro didn’t suspect Keith of lying to him and, accepting the story, dismissed himself with an advisory of getting some sleep and taking things easy. But Keith didn’t want to sleep. He was too wired.

With the Trigamon onboard and their ship still to fix, the others were busy with mechanical work and peace treaty conversations. Keith wasn’t in the right mindset to be bossed about by Pidge, but holding a conversation with one of the tykes would get Keith confused and all muddled up he didn’t even bother trying.   
More training wasn’t the best thing for him, but it was all Keith was left with, unless he contacted the Blade. But they were busy on a recon mission in the outer regions of _Karta XI,_ spying on Galra activity. 

So training it was. 

Until Keith saw Coran a little further up the corridor, marching swiftly towards the bridge.   
“Coran, wait up,” Keith called, jogging the distance towards the Altean as he stopped, turning on the ball of his heel to great the Red Paladin. “Keith, are you okay? Do you require a healing pod too?” he asked; his tone slightly off from his usually chirpy self. Keith noted it instantly, something inside him squirming without conscious thought.   
“No, I’m okay. I was going to ask about Lance. How is he, his injuries I mean?” 

The Red Paladin was surprised when Coran scowled, the squirm tightening in worry. “How long did the pod predict it will take for him to heal?” He asked, pressing the man. Coran sighed.   
“Thirteen Dobosh.”   
“Thir— _Thirteen Dobosh?_ But that’s like fifteen minutes max,” Keith said, shocked, head thrown over his shoulder as if he expected Lance to come skipping down the hall perfectly healed. “Are you sure that’s right?”  
“To be honest, no I’m not. I was in the search of Pidge, hoping to acquire their help in testing the machine.”   
“And where is Lance now?”  
“Resting. He was tired, as always, so I sent him to bed. I’m going to report to Shiro and the Princess too, unless you can report to them,” Coran said. His attitude made sense if the pods were malfunctioning. 

“But Lance, what about his injuries? Was he really healed in thirteen Dobosh, or does he still—”  
“No he’s all healed,” Coran said, and this time there was a genuine smile, despite his furrowed brow. “In fact, he’s as right as rainwater as you Earthlings say, although I’m still trying to figure out why the timeframe of the healing system was so short. But as always, it’s done its job.”   
At least Lance’s recovered condition quelled the snaking doubt in Keith’s gut. 

Keith didn’t pry too much into Lance’s condition, knowing Coran had probably been sworn to the same silence just like himself when it came to Lance’s injuries. Yet the Altean didn’t seem overly bothered at the intensity of the boy’s abuse, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as Keith had initially thought. The short time in the pod supported that theory.   
The wounds had only been skin deep. Theatre makeup.

The Red Paladin took the task of informing Shiro and Allura on Lance’s condition, as Pidge was taken by Coran for tests on the healing pods. Afterwards, Keith went to help Hunk and the Trigamons fix the Cargo ship, using the spare parts he had salvaged from _Torous._

Fixing the ship was as monotonous as eating, but doing anything else would leave Keith feeling useless and he didn’t want to be. He struggled to concentrate as he worked alongside Hunk, but it was better than doing nothing.   
Although, after dropping the coupling brace on his foot for the third time, Hunk sent him back to the ship with a firm order Keith sleep, or try and do anything besides trying to break his toes.   
Begrudgingly Keith complied, having no focus for training or for politics, taking himself to his room.   
He hesitated outside, eyes on Lance’s door that stood opposite his in the hallway, barring sight of the supposedly sleeping Blue Paladin. The idea of Coran not needing to watch over Lance, even despite the short amount of time spent healing in the Med-bay, comforted Keith, and he saw no reason to disturb the boy. 

Lance remained asleep all day.   
Pidge and Coran ran tests on the Cryo-Chambers but they were functioning to standard, returning once more to the Trigamon ship alongside Hunk and Keith, who woke after a few cycles.   
Allura and Shiro entertained many of the Alien guests who, as a way of saying thanks to the Paladins for saving them, planned a party of sorts. They took over the Kitchen, with Hunk’s supervision, and whipped up a feast that filled the entire Castle with its sweet aroma.   
Pretty soon the Dining Hall’s main table was decorated with many platters of colourful food; arrays of fresh fruit, fresh meat and sparkling drinks that made your tongue fizzle and smoke stream out your ears. 

The Trigamon, much like the bush baby species back on Earth, were huge lovers of fruit, however their alien counterparts dove into the succulent feasting of meat and fish too.   
Hunk, impressed by their culinary skills, lunged into conversation about such delicacies between showing off his skill; carving one round crunchy pink pome into little rabbit slices to share, idly chatting with the engineers about their vessel, their home world back on _Griezian Slur._  
Pidge was busy with stuffing their face and curling up in the corner around their computer as they tracked the Pirates position and fine-tuned the coding on the hacking signal, but generally soaking up the peaceful atmosphere.  
Coran was learning some exotic dance with the females, making a fool of himself but keeping the Princess, the Black and Red Paladins entertained. 

The only one missing was Lance. 

He came later, woken by the laughter and joyous sounds of happiness, his feet taking him unsteadily along the empty corridors to the source of succulent cooking.

He had watched them from the doorway, caught in the spell as if he was watching a daydream, something keeping him from joining his friends.   
He stood, torn; unable to enter the room. He wanted to be with them there, in the moment of laughter and happiness, the impromptu party a much needed respite for all the Paladins, including himself.   
But being with them, in their space, would force him to wear a smile and step on toes he didn’t have the energy to step on. It was his persona of course, flirty, rambunctious, _childish._ But the compliments to Allura would only be seen negatively, the words not well met no matter how he lay thick his joking tone, trying to bring some sense of humour into their constant days of war and war and _war._

So, content with watching, the Blue Paladin remained in the doorway.   
There is a vice in his chest, a constant pressure that isn’t so much pain as it is an ache inside him, an unsettlement that weighs on his lungs, his stomach and mind. 

He watches Hunk on the far side of the room, surrounded by the little monkeys, easily filling Lance’s shoes of the party clown, telling jokes and enticing tinkling laughter from those around him. He has them eating of out of his hand, all asking _“Brave Warrior Hunk”_ about his exciting missions as Yellow Paladin of Voltron.   
He tells them, blushing with their title for him, unable to keep his smile from his face with their praises and incessant _“oohing and aahing,”_ when he tells them of Voltron’s feats. He has many of his own, talking of Shay and the Balmera, the fights against the Galra, able to discuss logistics and mechanical wonders with ease when the Trigamons, who are engineers themselves, delve into the subject of robots and technology.

They’re all enjoying themselves. Even Keith, usually not one for mingling too much, is joined by Shiro and Coran, talking as they drink, occasionally throwing their heads back in laughter. 

Lance wanted to belong. He wanted to be a part of the group, but there’s no place for him.   
The Princess was someone who, although a member of the team and crucial aspect of Voltron, would never lower herself to Lance’s level to be _friends_ with her. Friendly, sure, but in the diplomatic way she referred to the Aliens with. None of them were her friends but she spoke concisely and politely, the depths of conversation never deepening into anything substantial other than the relaying of orders. Her tone, rarely deepening into its clipped, bluntness of impatience, never held the soft tones that Hunk or a caring friend might possess.   
She kept Lance at an arm’s length in all things. He would compliment her, in hopes of conversation, not meaning to flirt but without any other common ground, found it hard to start conversation anywhere other than a compliment or praise.   
She kept her walls up to him and allowed him no further entry. There was no space for Lance there. 

Coran was much the same. Lance had tried to befriend him more so than just the loose ties of Paladin and Doctor.   
He had been honest with him once, let his walls down _a little_ when he was feeling homesick and just generally overwhelmed by everything. He told Coran of Earth and how he missed it, how he missed home and his family and everything he knew.   
But upon hearing Coran’s pain to losing Altea, his planet that literally _blew up,_ his entire people, his family all dying with no hopes of saving them, how could Lance be so selfish to talk about a home he could return to anytime he wanted? 

Lance could’ve talked to Hunk perhaps. He had always been his friend, ever since back at the Garrison. Sometimes he’d forget his memories, mixing reality and imagination, falsely remembering tripping over loose rock and stone as he and Hunk, small boys of eight or nine would run the forest trails, climb trees and play pretend soldiers in the woods.   
They were close, Hunk the closest to him out here in the vastness of space, always there for him, always on his side. 

It had been Lance who dragged Hunk into the War. Not knowing of course, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t Lance who dragged Hunk with him from the dorms, out to Shiro’s crash-landed shuttle, out to _space._ Away from his home, his friends, his family.   
The thought that Hunk hated him for it scared Lance. He feared that the tow of them together was just a pretence, that Hunk’s real emotions boiled away deep beneath masks and shields that kept Lance at bay, to stop him from hurting Hunk again.   
But what worse could Lance do?

_{You could kill him.}_ Anadón stood beside him, tail flicking back and forth as it watched the festivities with the same red vision as Lance. “I wouldn’t,” Lance bites angrily. _{Perhaps not on purpose. But you could. You might.}_  
The boy glances back to his friend with fear, feeling the slither of cold curl uncomfortably in his body as Pidge sits beside him, dropping their technology to involve themselves in conversations about robotics and space mechanics and technology. Conversations that flew right over Lance’s head. He couldn’t compete with their newfound friendship; bonding together over the magnificent structures, the castle tech that astounded them both.   
With Pidge, Hunk didn’t have to explain everything in excruciating detail, he didn’t have to mince his words, or slow down like he did with Lance. He could talk, without the feelings that everything else was just a waste of time, because Lance didn’t get it, because he wasn’t smart like Pidge, like Hunk… 

Neither Keith or Shiro were there to offer Lance support, let alone friendship. They were soldiers in this war, focused solely on the destruction of the Galra Empire, no time for things like feeling or friendship.   
Shiro’s responsibilities took priority; the Leader had a lot of them to take up his time and his focus, Lance couldn’t be selfish and ask Shiro to spend five minutes with him, just because he wants to talk about his _emotions._

Keith was always busy training, always working hard, having to pick up the slack where Lance was useless, being the good _“right hand man”_ to Shiro who needed all the help. He didn’t have time to waste on Lance either.  
And god, what would they think if he told them he didn’t think he could hack it as a Paladin? He’d just confirm their feelings; they’d pull him away from Blue for the worry that Lance couldn’t keep up, he was holding them back he was _nothing compared to them._

All of them were better, smarter, faster, _stronger._  
They were the superheroes who saved the day and saved the Universe and got the praise for their heroic deeds. 

_So where did that leave Lance?_  
He wasn’t a superhero or a sidekick, or the tech support back at the Bat Cave.   
No. Lance was just a supporting character on the side. The lucky civilian that saw the Bat Family move through the night, saving Gotham and its civilians every other day, snapping blurry pictures on his mobile to post on his Tumblr blog. He was the guest at _“Millionaire Shirogane’s”_ party that saw the man and his children causing havoc and being themselves; accepted and loved in one big family.   
Lance wasn’t even important to have a name. Just the badly drawn sketch of a thin, black-suited _someone,_ drinking a glass of expensive champagne in the bottom corner panel of the comic book. 

That is his place. Once the real Blue Paladin comes along to replace him, he’ll be forgotten about, left to collect dust on the top shelf while the rest of them continue on, saving the Universe, defeating the Galra, winning the war.   
They’d reach the goal Lance was keeping them from and although he wants nothing more than to be a part of the group, there is no place for him. 

_Why did he even come back?  
{That’s the same thing I asked you} _Anadón said from where he was sharpening his claws on the wall. _{I told you didn’t I, that you weren’t needed here, that there was no place except as a scapegoat, but did you listen? No~ you just thought you’d come on back, keep pretending you’re wanted—}_  
“Enough,” Lance sighed, his voice quiet but firm enough that it stilled the words inside Anadón. 

Sadness tingled at the boy’s fingers as he moved away from the door, back to the empty Castle corridors, letting feet place where they will, his body following mindlessly. Anadón walked beside him, eyes looking ahead. _{Where to now?}_  
“Bed.” It nods, it’s eyes not moving from their path. _{So why are we walking the wrong way?}_  
“I’m not tired yet,” Lance supplies, smiling down. Anadón looks up at him. _{You don’t need to pretend with me.}_  
So Lance doesn’t. And that is enough warmth to dispel the chill on his fingertips, burying them into his pockets, a hand reaching back to grab his hood, listening to the dull echo of his feet upon the floor, taking himself and his darkness away from the Castle’s busy Dining Hall. 

The celebration stretched well in the night and some of the following morning too. Sometime between midnight and very early morning, the techno-wizard had rigged their laptop up to the computer’s internal Comms System and was blasting Techno Trance music that had everyone dancing like they had forgotten to stand still. Hunk was moving like his limbs were spaghetti and Pidge’s face was stretched into an epic grin of pure excitement.   
The feeling was infectious, or maybe it was the sparkling drinks, because things got crazy after Coran decided to bring out more Nunvil.  
Hunk invited Allura onto the dance floor at one point, determined to teach her to slow dance, despite the old pop culture tunes. He called it recreational, Allura quick to be enthralled by Human’s odd pastimes. Coran, not to be out done, started doing the _‘Altean Wiggle Waggle’,_ and would’ve broken every bone in his body had it not been for Shiro’ insistence that he _not_ jump himself off the table, in case it gave the younger Paladins any ideas. 

Keith was the only one not completely hypnotized by the good mood, nursing insecurities in the back of his mind, remaining vigilant as ever. He’d never admit it out loud, but, regardless of everyone’s energy, the party seemed dull without the addition of the Blue paladin.   
He knew the others felt it too; the odd break in conversation, the eyes scanning the furry heads for a hint of rambunctious laughter and the sight of a familiar Cuban downing drinks as part of a bet, or starting a conga line, or flirting with the females because he needed his ego stroked.   
But Lance was still sleeping and the celebration was meant to take their minds off of their healing friend, even if that wasn’t the true purpose. So thoughts were buried and Keith joined Pidge in their corner by the buffet table, surrounded by spicy kebabs of meat and luminous fruit. 

It didn’t take long for the Aliens to tire themselves out, taking cushions and blankets from the sofa to snuggle with one another like one giant cuddle puddle, rather than returning to one of the storage rooms. It seemed that Trigamons were fond of sleeping together, holding hands or cuddling up to one another as they drifted off.   
Pidge was the first of the Paladins to fall asleep, not quite reaching their room, and having to be carried by Shiro, which earned him plenty of comments from Keith and Hunk, who remained merry from excitement and Nunvil.   
After that, they all disappeared to their own quarters, happily slipping into peaceful dreams, just as the corridor lights began to illuminate, guiding a lonely sharpshooter to the training deck.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_{You should sleep},_ Anadón says, once again playing the role of carer. It is beginning to find the balance between bitter and sweet, having learnt its lesson not to be too cruel, too quickly in case it lost its hold on Lance again. But now, as it lies on the cold smooth floor of the observation deck, it knows Lance needs the guiding hand of someone who loves him.  
 _Love._ It would snort with derision if it could, but such plan is useless, it will bring him nothing. Not even his words effect Lance; his conscious stolen by the enemy of concentration, eyes pouring over word after word from the instruction manual.

 _{Lance, it’s late.}_  
“It’s okay Anadón,” Lance says, lifting his head from the display tablet in front of him, smiling on instinct, rather than relaying the emotion inside of him. “I’m not tired.”   
_{Liar,}_ Anadón grumbled, letting his eyes roll shut, lowering its head to the floor once more, pushing its nose to Lance’s thigh; such notion taken from the boy’s memory. Dogs do it, back on Earth. Anadón copies, knowing the familiarity keeps Lance’s walls low.   
As expected, Lance stretched out a hand, fingers pressing against the feathers that lay thick around its neck as a part of its mane; smiling when Anadón echoed a purr in comfort.   
He had grown even bigger whilst Lance trained. Now his body was as tall as a horse, his thick, robust body just as strong, neck still considerably long, only extending his height. The feathers had grown longer, his neck glittering with smooth orange scales, glittering like comets against the ebony of his leathery skin.   
Anadón’s legs had grown long, splayed into three clawed toes which clicked on the floor tiles, tapping rhythm to the movements of Lance’s petting. His tail, wrapped loving around Lance’s leg, his body used as cushioning for the boy to lean back into as he delve deep into Altean manuals and records pertaining information about the training deck and all its programmes. 

Coran had only shown them the basic instructions, stating they needn’t know much more until they had mastered basic training.   
_Basic training my ass_. There were _one hundred_ levels to Basic, _a hundred and thirty_ to Intermediate and another odd _hundred_ for Master. Not to mention the several thousand specific training programmes that based on weapon specifics, teams, potential enemy threats and so on.   
There were mission simulations with “Damsel in distress” scenarios, anti-grav simulations, some that filled the training room with water, volcanic eruption sequences with _real quiznaking lava,_ simulations that released fifteen meter Gladiators and so much more. 

Either Coran didn’t want the team to improve quickly, or he was just happy to baby the lot of them.   
_Why? They were in the middle of a god-dam war._

“There’s got to be an easier way of playing these scenarios, rather than having to punch the codes in every time,” Lance mumbled, more to himself than Anadón, who fluffed his tail, as if that was an adequate response.   
Lance thumbed down the page. “Oh wait, there is, its voice commands.” He submerged himself in the text, staring at unusual words that probed at his conscious, the Altean cipher open next to him to help when the basic words would stretch into others that Lance didn’t yet know the meaning of. 

Two years in space meant a lot of free time, despite the constant war, meaning Lance’s downtime, when he wasn’t training, napping or taste-testing Hunk’s creations, was spent reading Altean books, learning through repetition and his own guesswork. Still, it was a good focus now and again, but Lance was only beginning to appreciate his own initiative as he continued to scroll down the instructions and safety implications of not fighting alone and other basic warfare knowledge the Alteans had on handy, despite the race being historians, scientists and diplomats. 

Now and again the tiredness called to him, inviting him back to the softness of his bed, to the quiet comfort of duvets, blankets and sleep. But he had had enough of that.   
Too many nightmares kept him from peace, and even then, it was just the tediousness of staring at his ceiling, begging for sleep to find him, if only for an hour or two. The _Eleiryian_ gel worked wonders, numbing Lance’s pain and the desire for rest. Sure his legs gave him grief and his body was stiff, but a quick walk around the Castle and another vial of _Eyre_ had remedied that. 

The tiredness pulls at him again, this time harder, but Lance ignores it. He doesn’t want to sleep. He doesn’t want to surrender his mind to the nightmares anymore. 

Times moves in a blur. Lance has all the time in the world to train. Sleep is secondary, tiredness ignored. Hunger is calmed but the nutrient cubes Coran supplies for away missions. 

The only real enemy that remains is his own restlessness, his own weakness that takes him to the sparring ring, standing in front of the gladiators again and again.   
After thirteen levels of blaster shots and too many close calls for his liking, the entire programme ending in his own failure. Out of the twenty six gladiators, he had only managed to take out three bare handed, which wasn’t any good if he was to get better for the provisional measure that he was found unarmed again.   
Angry with himself at his own inability, Lance shut the gladiators off with a series of barked commands, hoping to find another way than “hit it until it breaks.”  
Spurred by Anadón’s words, Lance had made his way to the observation deck. He watched the gladiators spar for a while, mapping their movements and playing it out, hoping to eventually rely on muscle memory. But then, he had found the guidebooks and instruction manuals in the stored tablets that Coran usually used to monitor the Paladin’s progress as they sparred with one another and the Castle’s technology. 

It was there, in the peace and quiet, he found the words he had been looking for. The words that would take him from _“Lance, Voltron Placeholder, Seventh wheel and Replaceable Paladin,”_ to _“Lance, The Blue Paladin of Voltron, Sharpshooter and Trusted Teammate of the Defenders of the Universe.”_  
The book was his bible, the words soaking into his skin like the spray of the ocean as he stood on the shore, staring out at the horizon that was finally reachable. 

In his excitement, Lance lost himself, lost his head for moments, laughing to himself as he rolled far from his attackers. Muscle memory pulled his Bayard from his hip, hands shaking as he held it out in front of him, watching the charging figure.   
A pulse radiated in his hands, Bayard shaking. Balance broken, Lance reeled back from the heat in mind and body, fingers changing the grip as a blast of light knocked him back into the moment, his Bayard shifting its form. Not to another gun model, sword or angular Katar like Pidge’s model. 

In his hand, Lance held a long shaft, rivulets of detail shifting down the gar, the tip pointed much like a javelin. He watches the end hum with life, before an arc of electricity danced down the rivulets towards his hands. _{That’s it Lance, focus,}_ Anadón calls to him.   
Lance’s smile falls when the gar hummed back into a blaster. But with furrowed brow, he watches in unbound excitement as the blaster shifted once again, elongates and stretched into the gar, complete with arches of electricity that scorch the Castle floor. The weapon was heavy, the tip dipping low but Lance changed his stance and held it out, watching as the Gladiator ran full pelt, impaling itself in a spark of electricity as the gar lit up with Altean Energy.   
It’s like what Keith described after he had fought one on one against Zarkon. With his own will, the black bayard had changed forms so many times, to different weapons. _Whichever one suited Zarkon, he had called for it, the bayard shifting to his will._

Lance grinned, his imagination running wild as he finally found the key he had been looking for, his mind snapping to Saturday morning TV, and movie nights at the cinema and all the wondrous weapons he has seen on the big screen.

The power is inside him; he can feel it. Like a ripple on the surface of water, he only has to throw the stone and watch the ripple roll and grow and build into the crashing waves of an ocean tempest. He can control the waves, the storm, the winds and the tide.   
_He can control the ocean inside him._

_[No my Cub!]_

Lance lost focus.   
The Bayard shone blue, Lance’s grip weakening as it morphed, the light like elastic, snapping back into the first mode, leaving Lance’s hand burning. His armour smoked, the black leather singed across the palm.   
Lance laughed to himself, unable to keep his grip on the handle as his Bayard clattered to the floor, the water running from his fingers as it returns to the ocean, the surface once again calm and clear. 

“Blue, Blue I did it,” Lance yelled excitedly, turning in the room as if she was there, his eyes searching.   
Anadón watched him quietly, raising itself from the floor as Lance called for his lion, giddy from excitement because he’s done it, he’s changed his Bayard’s form like Zarkon. He is finally progressing.   
“Blue, I did it,” he laughed, _[Little Cub, I understand your excitement. But this is not right. You are not ready.]_

Shock came thundering back, Lance’s joy crushed under the racing hooves of emotion that destroyed the hope that maybe; _finally_ he was going to rise from the pit of darkness that held him prisoner.   
“B-Blue?”  
 _[You are not ready, My Cub. You cannot forge ahead when the light is dark and the way unclear.]_  
“It’s not, Blue, I know what I have to-”  
 _[You do not,]_ she said, her tone firm and angry. _[You only think you do, guided by your own hatred that has warped your mind. You cannot find your way because you have lost yourself, Paladin.]_

Lance felt his body go cold. In her haste to halt Lance from rushing forward, she had abandoned her term of endearment, and abandoned thoughts to her gentle, sweet _delicate_ pilot, who still teetered in a dangerous place. He was only looking for acceptance, only looking for a genuine smile and a little praise from the Paladins and the Lion who would no longer be disappointed that he was her Paladin.   
But she was angry now; he heard it in her words, listening to the sound of her paws echoing deep in the Castle. He imagined her pacing, imagined her dark glare turned on him, paw raised ready to crush the parasite that rode her, that thought himself a Paladin. 

Lance suppressed the sob, hearing her cry for him, unable to hear the words. She was only looking out for him. She was only hoping to keep him from harm.   
But words cast carelessly can cut deeper than the sharpest blade. 

_[I’m not disappointed little Cub. But this recklessness is expected of the Red One. I did not think you capable.]_

_Not capable._  
The words are ice in his chest, a numbness that spreads through his body, making his head swim as he feels sick. Words echo, unheard, listening to her roar for him, pulling him away from the edge that she has undeniably shoved him towards. There’s no oxygen in his lungs, but he doesn’t even bother gasping for air, his body as cold and dead as stone.   
_Of course Lance isn’t capable._ That’s why he’s trying his hardest to reach them, up there on their pedestals while he drowns in the currents far below, desperate to be anything like they are. 

Lance held tight to the feeling of dread in his stomach, the pain of being compared to Keith a thousand times worse when it came from Blue. He could feel the disappointment wash around him. He could feel the shame Blue felt towards the one meant to be her Paladin. 

_Meant to be her Paladin….  
Was Lance… truly not meant to be… her Paladin? _

_{Oh no, you’ve angered mother,}_ Anadón drawled, his words meant to deal insult to the Blue Lion. Sarcasm thick in its words, Anadón rose up onto all fours, staring at the wall as if Blue herself stood before him.   
_[Leave him Demon,]_ Blue roared, a wave of worry and anger knocking Lance off his feet.   
_{Leave him? Why should I leave him? I’m the only one here that is helping him—}  
[You’re killing him—]  
{I’m showing Lance the truth. At least I don’t lie to him. At least I’m not holding him back!} _

“Please don’t fight,” Lance whimpered, pressing his fingers to his temples as the voices inside his head got louder and louder, their words searing his mind, the heat painful. He threw his helmet to the side, eyes clamped shut, but neither Blue nor Anadón stood down from their fight, roaring at one another through the walls of the Castle. 

_{Lance is ready for this.}  
[I’m saving him—]  
{No you’re not. You’re keeping him from his potential, just like everyone else. You’re holding him back from progressing quickly, from surpassing Keith and Shiro, stopping him from actually achieving anything.}  
[That’s not true—]  
{You hold him back,} _Anadón continues ruthlessly, his words like razors in Lance’s mind, his own anger rising with his Demon’s, _{so that when the time comes for you to find yourself a new Paladin, the others will accept them because they’re better than Lance. Just because you won’t allow him to move on!}  
[Paladin, that’s not true!] _

_{IT IS TRUE!}_ Anadón thundered, hackles rising to an imaginary opponent. He stood before Lance defensively, a barrier to the darkness that crept in like the tide, feeding off of Lance’s fear that, _yes it’s true._ Blue is against him, she’s just like the others.  
 _{You’re just like all the others,}_ Anadón roared, repeating Lance’s fears. {You don’t value Lance. Not like I do. Not like he deserves!}

Lance shook his head.   
He didn’t want to hear it.   
_He didn’t want to hear it._

_[Paladin, no—]_ But Anadón silenced her with another roar, her voice and thoughts trickling away like the residue of a summer storm.   
The beast turned to the Human, taking in the pleasant sight of white knuckles, bloodless lips and a tear stained face that weeps and sobs, begging over and over for Blue to forgive him because he’s sorry, _“I’m sorry Blue, I’m sorry, please stop.”_ He had been trying, so hard, to keep it in and quit with the pitying front that would reveal his weakness to the team that already suspects him. They all suspect him.   
Even Blue who can no longer trust him, who looked down upon her Paladin and shame. She reached for him in panic, feeling a wall of ice block her path, taller than anything she could climb, stronger than her who claws at it, ramming against the expanse that won’t budge, it refuses to allow her through, the cracking of icicles that fall around her the dissonant laughter of the shadow Demon the plagues her Cub’s heart. She is blocked from him, in her distress roaring for the Paladin that lies on the floor of the training hall, curled around himself. 

_{Sssh Osito, I’m here. I’ll always be here.}_ Lance cried like a damn broke, feeling the feathers against his cheek as Anadón remained, as Anadón would: the only comfort for him when even Blue admitted that he was a disappointment to her. _A disappointment to Voltron._

_{We’ll prove them wrong Osito. We’ll become better, we’ll become stronger. They’ll have to accept us as the Blue Paladin.}_

Lance’s body curled tighter around itself, his knees to his head as he buried himself in the feathers of the creature that remains and remains.   
Anadón’s tail wrapped lovingly around him, and Lance let go in shuddering sobs, his face a mess of snot and drool as he fought for air and the hopes of release from this horrible, _horrible_ pain.   
He had feared it. Of course he had. It was a fear that gripped him tight and dragged him closer and closer to the darkness. Somehow, he had always found the will to hold on. False hopes given from others, false hopes he fooled himself into accepting because it was easier than facing the truth, because as long as he pretended not to see… 

But this was too much.   
He was going to fall. _He was going to fall._  
He was going to fall and smash against the rocks, he was going to suffocate in the darkness, he was going to disappear– 

“Lance? _Lance!”_  
There’s a voice. Not Anadón’s, but it is warm as it calls out to him, his name falling light on his ears, tears slowing, sobs fading into nothing but light pulls of air between bloodless lips. 

A hand grabs him, brushing back his fringe that had fell in front of his eyes, a touch of cold to the burning of his skin; residue of Anadón and Blue’s fight inside his torn mind. “Lance, what’s wrong, are you hurt?”   
Lance opens his eyes, Keith pushing the boy out of his folded position, trying to get a good look at his face. Lance fights him, arms twisting as he presses his face against them, hiding his tears. “Stop it,” he whined weakly.

Keith ignored him. Of course he did. He was stronger too; able to prise Lance’s hands from where he buried his face.   
“Lance what happened? The Lions, they started freaking out. Blue is roaring, she won’t stop. Hunk and Pidge went to calm her— they’re all— all the lions are scared, Red kept showing me pictures of you and, and you weren’t in your room.”   
There are other voices, Lance able to discern them as the team, but they’re not beside him. Coran and Shiro are to the side, still out in the corridor with Allura where they are keeping the Trigamon at bay.   
Keith is still speaking. “What the hell are you doing? You look like you’ve just stepped out the shower, you’re covered in sweat.”  
Lance doesn’t answer, too busy palming his eyes. 

Keith moves his arms to allow Lance to sit up, ignoring the pain that throbs in his head. Anadón is there, retreated to the wall where it watches on with a snarl, teeth bared to the Red and the team that still haven’t entered the training hall. 

“What happened Lance, why is Blue so upset?”  
“I don’t know,” the boy finally says, trying to push off the heaviness, desperate to drag his mask back over his face.   
_Oh quiznak, the team have found him crying, they’ve found him broken and they know, oh god now they know! _

Lance shoves the heaviness one last time, feeling the claws unhook themselves and he lets out a shuddery sigh. “I couldn’t sleep, so I came to train, I just couldn’t—”  
Lance’s words catch, stuck in his throat to stop himself from rambling and revealing all his weaknesses, all his fears, all at once. He looks up to the Red weakly, hoping that the sad puppy look might get him a _get-out-of-jail-free_ card.   
Keith is staring at him with an unreadable expression. “You training wouldn’t scare Blue, and it wouldn’t get her to panic enough to share it with the other lions. So tell me, why is she wreaking havoc in the hangar?”   
Lance shrugs in response with an “I don’t know.”   
Keith doesn’t look impressed. “Lance, can’t you hear her? Can’t you feel how freaked out she is? Red is worried for her, they all are,” he says, looking back to the team who are trying to calm their lions through their bonds. Hunk and Pidge have joined them now, the Trigamons gone, but still they remain outside the door, conversing in small voices.   
_{They know,}_ Anadón says, breaking away from the wall, coming to stand between them and Lance’s line of sight. _They can’t.  
{They do.} _

Keith is still talking. “—and we find you here, a blubbering mess on the training hall floor. What are we expected to think?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“What do you mean, _“I don’t know”?”_  
“It means I DON’T KNOW!” Lance roared, feeling Anadón’s voice drive through him, all their shared anger twisting his voice into a feral snarl, hands clenched into fists as _fight-or-flight_ instincts kick in.   
Flight prevailed and he pulled back from the Red Paladin, forcing himself not to look at him, or the shocked faces of the team, presuming the boys to be fighting again.   
Shiro moves to join them. “Lance—”  
“It was… It was just…” But there’s no excuse to offer and Lance is left standing beside the wall, wishing himself anywhere but here, where the team can scrutinise him, where they can see him falling apart despite his efforts to keep it all together. He was trying to get stronger, he was stronger, but they couldn’t see that. 

“It was nothing,” Lance decides, turning on his heel, barging past Shiro and Keith before he can say anything else stupid. 

“Was it another nightmare?” 

Lance turns, eyes catching a sight of Keith’s soft gaze upon him. He is stood now, arms folded loosely beside their Leader. Is that really pity in their eyes? Or an understanding that they’re all running out of time. They need a new Paladin, and quickly, if Lance is now losing his mind.   
“And if it was a nightmare?” he argues.   
Lance’s back is against a wall, wanting to run but knowing he’ll only be chased if he turns his back on the team who decide they want answers and they want them now.  
Admitting to bad dreams is better than admitting to hearing voices, right? _{One way to find out.}_

“Do you want to talk about it?”   
“No,” Lance says quickly, giving himself no time to think of Keith’s words, feet already pulling him backwards, away from the prying, away from those seeking the truth. “I just want to forget about it.”   
Because he does. He wants to pretend that Blue still accepts him, that he’s still her Paladin, even if it’s not for much longer. He wants to pretend that it’s all a nightmare and that this is nothing more than a bad dream. 

“I just want to forget,” Lance says, turning his back on the team, fleeing before they could prise the truth from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a side note, Anadón means duckling in Spanish (according to Google Translate). I thought it was a cute term of endearment, although maybe not a good name for a monster.


	8. A Want To Belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his injuries, despite his fears, Lance still pushes himself to train, harder and harder. He’s driven himself into an impossible corner, boxing himself in with self-imposed targets, thinking that he’s not good enough, that Blue no longer thinks him good enough to be her Paladin. His time with the team is drawing to a close, but it’s in his final moments of desperation that Lance decides he won’t stand for being ignored any longer. The team are going to sit up and take note. He IS the Blue Paladin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Suicidal thoughts, in the sense that Lance isn’t actually thinking but he almost kills himself (confusing yes but he’s not suicidal, it is Anadón)

**System:** Nairn  
 **Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

The pain was back again. 

Lance felt it when Shiro began describing his movements as he stood there, standing opposite Keith, comparing the differences in a sturdy stance and one that, although more comfortable and natural, was weaker and would lead to being unbalanced and the inevitable fall if an opponent landed a blow anywhere on his upper body. As if to demonstrate, Keith stepped in, mid-sentence and delivered said blow, laughing when Shiro toppled to the floor with a look of surprise on his face. “What were you saying about footwork?” the Red laughed, offering a hand to help him stand. 

“Did you see that Lance? Can you see what I mean now?”   
“Yeah, I got it Shiro.” Lance let his words flow calmly, suppressing the bite to his tone into something more neutral, throwing the morsel of anger to Anadón who was curled on the floor beside him, already bored of the instructors that replayed the simple hand-to-hand combat moves over and over, pushing their skills further while the told Lance just to watch.   
Because of course he’ll learn so much if he just stands to the side and watches them flirt with one another. Keith rolls in, grabbing Shiro’s arm and flipping the older man onto his back, a knee on his chest, a flippant _“pinned you”_ grinning at him. Shiro rolled them, but Keith rolled with the motion and laughed out, _“pinned you again.”_

Lance was a sharpshooter. He didn’t need this training.   
_{But you wanted it,}_ Anadón supplies from the floor, savouring the taste of anger towards him, feasting on that juicy little bite as well. _{We both said you needed to get stronger, and look at you now. You have a second Mark, you’re learning to read your team better, understand them better—}  
Understand their annoyance better. That’s something I don’t need.   
{No, I guess not. But that doesn’t mean that you’re not stronger and watching them, spar, isn’t useless. Watch them, study them. Be stronger than them.} _

Lance did as his Demon said, watching Keith’s movements, fluid and powerful as he threw two fists into Shiro’s unguarded right side, bringing a knee up in feint before a second fist. It was caught by a forearm and Keith is jumping back out of Shiro’s reach. That is his play style. Attack, retreat, reassess, try again.   
Shiro’s fighting style was the same, it was why when they sparred they always seemed to be dancing; attuned to the way the other moved, already running simulations in his mind to counterattack and strike. 

It was an impromptu training session, called upon by Keith and Shiro when they had rushed to the Training Hall, early morning to find Lance once again alone. But instead of curled up on the floor, crying his eyes out because _he’s weak, he’s stupid, a waste of space, a no-good blue paladin…_  
No, this time, they find him locked wrists with a castle spar-bot, pinned beneath it, his bayard kicked from his hand, refusing to bow to the fear of the vocal command to end training command.   
He was still dressed in his armour from the last time he had been in the hall, battling not just the robots, but his fears, and even Blue who had not spoken to him since. His mind felt empty without her presence and, in his anger, he took it out on the gladiators with unrestrained prejudice. It was this castle, making him go crazy, this war that he was fighting that was changing him, keeping him from his family and anyone who ever cared for him. 

So he destroyed what he could, taking his blaster to their ocular lens, driving his gar into their chests and unleashing beautiful arcs of electricity that fried their systems with the unrestrained Altean Energy. Too much burned Lance’s hands, but it was simply a matter of finding a balance. Of gaining control.   
But he hadn’t known how to throw his opponent, and when the number too great, his bayard dropping from burnt gloves and painful fingers, Lance had become trapped.   
And that’s where they found him, pinned and cursing, his vocal commands not to the castle system but the Black and Red paladin who ran forward, taking over when they saw the Blue Paladin failing. _Again._

With the rushed commands to end the training sequence, Shiro had rushed over, dragging Lance out from underneath the Gladiator, giving him an unnecessary once-over to check that he was alright. Or, probably just checking the armour wasn’t damaged so that next Blue Paladin had a matching uniform to wear when they took the job. 

Afterwards was just another speech. Something about Lance pushing himself too soon after injury, Shiro’s concerns about the functionability of the Cryo-Chambers and the expressed desire that Lance get back in one.   
“I’m fine Shiro,” Lance had said, putting distance between himself and the Black Paladin, distracting himself as he pretended to dust himself off of something along those lines, walking over to where his bayard had been kicked, effortlessly drawing out his blaster and putting it back again, turning back to the sparring ring with the intent of continuing to practice.   
But Shiro had fought against such “reckless thoughts.” Lance was apparently in no condition to train, not at least until after a scan from Coran. Lance insisted he couldn’t do _nothing._  
It was anger that Shiro drew from him, raising their voices into near shouts, Lance fighting his corner, admitting that he wanted to better himself with close quarter combat training, delivering a sliver of truth to Shiro, saying how it would’ve helped them back in the cave, on _Torous._

Lance had slipped up, revealing that it wasn’t so much of an ambush as a kidnapping, but Shiro ignored that, pretending to be happy that Lance was using his initiative. 

After a three sentence lecture on training alone, without supervision and needing plenty of rest first, Shiro and Keith had taken up positions opposite one another, deciding they would be the model and Lance could watch them spar hand-to-hand for now. _“Either watch or I’ll have Coran put you in the healing pod for another day until I know that you are at full health.”_  
It’s like Lance is a disposable NPC, but he doesn’t want to be confined like a prisoner, so allows the pair to model for him, so he can watch and learn from their mistakes. 

“Like this,” Shiro was saying, his hands out front, moving slowly so that Lance could see when he should withdraw from a grab-attack, and how to counter it. 

The pain throbbed behind his eyes with a vengeance.   
_{Don’t cry. You’re the one who will pay again.}_  
I’m not going to cry, Lance says in his mind, letting his eyes drag away from the two men flirting to where Anadón gnaws on a mass of shadows. It’s his irritation, but no matter how much Anadón devours the negativity, there is always more to replace it. 

Lance doesn’t really understand the creature. He knows its hurting him, knows that its only creation was derived from the need to consume the boy in darkness.  
It is a parasite and Lance is simply the vessel, the food source.   
But when it shows compassion, when it keeps him strong and steady, like _now_ as he watched Shiro ask Keith to help him demonstrate….   
It’s hard to want him gone. 

The boy was a walking contradiction.   
He was loud and rambunctious because he’s constantly scared and insecure, feeling like no one realises he’s actually there. He flirted with the girl-Aliens, but knew he never had a chance with them; never even bothered with the guys because why does he want the team looking at him funny like so many back on Earth.   
He welcomed people into his life, but kept them from delving too deep, so as they’d never learn anything too personal about him, so they could never find a weakness and hold it against him. 

And the chilling darkness inside him, the one that made him feel scared, insecure, not good enough, obsolete…  
 _It was often his only comfort._

Now, Anadón stands beside him instead of fangs at his neck. They stand together, watching Shiro and Keith move in entrancing dance-like motions, on par with one another as the demonstrations turned into a proper spar, their movements picking up speed.   
_{Keith has improved}_ the shadow-beast said, a purr to its voice as it assessed the Red Paladin beside Lance, who starts to pick up on the holes that lay in the boy’s defence. There aren’t many, but they are there; stored in his memory for when they next fight and he wishes to exploit such weaknesses.   
Shiro’s defence is stronger; of course he is, he has years on him, too much experience as _“Champion”_ fuelling his movements, keeping him three steps ahead of Keith. Irritatingly, Keith is keeping up. 

_{But we have a secret weapon.}_

Lance casts an eye. Anadón’s evolutions have slowed. He’s still the same height as before, his stature similar to a horse, yet the differences lie in the large claws that protrude from his front toes, the snaking of his tail that has gotten longer.   
Here in the bright lights of the training deck, Lance could see him clearly. His head has changed too, longer, his snout more pronounced, his lips not quite closing over sharp teeth worthy of any predator. The scales remain, but their colours have changed from simple oranges and golds to include shades of blue. They’re not bright, but pale like the colour of a cloudy sky without rain.   
His body is wrapped in the feathers, like fur, sharp nails tapping the floor with impatience.  
His three yellow eyes glow, lidded from the boredom as the spar fizzles into a stand-off, both partners panting and sweaty, hands still raised to show they weren’t backing down. 

_{They’re holding their own against one another,}_ he murmurs, mouth barely moving to let the words slip out. His tone tells Lance he is beyond bored; the tapping of his talons on the floor a silent question for them to leave and find something more useful to do. They’ve learnt all they can from watching, but here under Shiro’s watchful eye, they’re not going to be able to do anymore training. 

But then, Anadón nudges Lance’s shoulder with his head, gesturing to where Shiro is facing him, visibly tired from the fight, but smiling like he’s pleased with himself. “How was that? Did you see?”  
“I think I got it down,” Lance says smoothly, his voice like silk, offering up a sense of calm. Shiro laps it up, turning back to the younger. “Again?” And they’re sparring once more; Lance left abandoned to watch. 

_{And here I was sure that they were supposed to be teaching you.}_  
“Leave them be. They don’t see anything else when those two are together.” Lance left the Paladins to it; knowing they wouldn’t notice him disappearing until he was gone and they couldn’t call him back.   
They did however, sharing an equally confused look. Lance hadn’t spoken to them, had he? 

No. Lance had addressed Anadón.   
They left the training room together, Lance’s gait troubled from his still aching body, although, void of pain, he barely acknowledged it. He wasn’t sure if it was the lingering effects of the medicine he had stolen from Coran, or if it was Anadón eating his pain, keeping the Blue Paladin from feeling.   
It didn’t matter either way. Lance’s body was free of pain and that was what he focused on. 

_{They seem to be absorbed in their own little world,}_ Anadón purrs, snaking back and forth along the corridor in front of the boy that follows. Lance nods but says nothing, letting its words fill his mind, his thoughts turning sombre as it leads him further from the Training Hall. Not up, to the dormitories, the Bridge or the dining hall.   
Not to the Lion Hangers, where Blue is pacing with anticipation, mewling for her Paladin that cannot hear her.   
Not even to Lance’s private beach in the Holo-Room where he would usually go when he felt low and empty. 

No, the monster takes Lance to somewhere where his feet rarely tread. It leads him to the main Entrance Hall. 

He’s seventeen floors above, staring down at the grand staircase sweeping between the first and third levels, the oddly calming blue glow of the Castle’s interior lights. Their glow is cast on the walls and upon the floor, lightly reflecting the hues as they flicker, much like candle light.  
It might be due to a lack of power, or maybe it is just in Lance’s mind, but the blue ebbs and flows like the dancing light of sunshine on the ocean’s surface. He feels like he’s underwater, staring at the expanding sky a million miles above…

_{You miss home.}_

Anadón is beside him. He leans against the railing beside Lance, who sits upon it, his legs swinging over the abyss, staring down to the floor and the shape of people moving beneath him. It might mean something if he cares, but he doesn’t, and the shapes fade into the background.   
His only focus is the shadow-beast that sits beside him, its head laid on Lance’s lap, breathing in the sweet scent of emptiness. The boy scratches behind its ears, smiling at the purrs he pulls from Anadón’s lips. 

_{You didn’t answer me.}_  
“Perhaps not,” Lance smiles, a fake sense of calm returning to the fact that his quick wit and snarky replies haven’t been lost to him. Not yet. 

_{But you still miss home.}_  
“Of course. I think I will always miss it. It is home after all. It’s where my family are.”  
 _{Are the Paladins not your family?}_  
“Maybe. Once. But they’re not family anymore. Family cares for you. They don’t care for me, and not me for them. Not anymore.” 

Lance lets his words face into quiet, and the conversation is over. Anadón doesn’t press him and he’s grateful for that, grateful that he has the monster there to comfort him in his solitude, grateful that he’s understood, he hasn’t been completely abandoned… 

Lance just sits and stares up at the ceiling, not paying attention to his thoughts as they wander down dark and unwanted paths. It is Anadón who leads him down them, but Lance doesn’t realise how strong the darkness is rooted deep inside him. He thinks himself in control of his own mind. 

There’s a pain in Lance’s chest as he thinks of home. It is so far away, _he_ is so far away from Earth, from his home and the family he loves dearly. But they’re not waiting for him. _They all think he’s dead._

The thoughts are familiar and Lance is used to the pain the homesick brings; physical in the way shooting pain rides through his body, from his fingers to his chest, the tightening of his lungs as if he can’t breathe. He’s used to it. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt him any less. 

They have already mourned him, of course. They’ve dug him a grave, buried an empty coffin in the earth. They’ve laid flowers on his tombstone, lit a candle for him and said his name in prayer a thousand times, cried for him a thousand times, called his name in heartbreaking despair, begging, pleading for him to return home to them, safe, alive, well….  
There’s a burning sensation in the back of his throat. The tears want to fall, but Lance seems unable to let go of something. He’s holding onto it, through the pain, through the emptiness. Desperate to hold on to the hope that they haven’t forgotten about him. 

Lance is still fighting the darkness. He may have welcomed Anadón for comfort, he might not be able to dismiss his words when it involves the Paladins. But there’s something about home that he can’t give up on. 

_Home._  
Of course he wanted to go home. 

Home was with Mama and Luis and Maya and Jeremy and Ariesa and Milo and Esmeralda and Isabel. Home was with warm sandy beaches and long walks in flip flops that left blisters on his feet and sunburn on his toes.   
Home was the nights in front of the TV, singing along to songs that blast out the radio, dancing along with Mama and the girls who sing a little out of tune, giddy from laughter as the teaches his niece how to do the hand jive.   
Home was sat on his windowsill, writing songs and strumming out little tunes on the worn out guitar, covered in stickers and sharpie doodles that he had found in the back corner of Papa Maltino’s Thrift Store, traded for three dollars and a dish of his mother’s homemade lasagne.   
Home was the campfire on the beach with his friends, chasing each other with seaweed and splashing about in the surf until they were cold and shivering. Home was sliding under the blanket, toes to the fire, sharing stories and singing songs as the passed around beer they had smuggled away from their parents without them noticing.   
Home was juggling groceries in brown paper bags, trying to open the door with one hand and not drop everything with the other. Home was Thanksgiving with a slightly burnt turkey and the entire neighbourhood turning up for a taste of Mama McClain’s finest cooking. 

Home wasn’t here, in space in a ten thousand year old spaceship that found itself in the throes of war, shot at, blasted at, targeted by angry purple Aliens that wanted nothing more than to destroy the entire Universe and enslave it’s people to continue building its Empire.   
Home wasn’t being a soldier in a War that no one else knew about, fighting day in and day out just to keep on his shoulders, just to keep himself breathing, keep fighting, still surviving as he fights for a place in the Universe against friend and foe alike.   
Home wasn’t being pushed out of a friendship with Hunk, pushed to the sidelines by a better soldier, a better fighter, being ignored by the person he had always called his Hero, being looked over by the very people he cared deeply for.   
Home wasn’t being taken for granted, being a placeholder, being a seventh wheel. 

Home wasn’t slowly losing his mind to a darkness that was greater than himself. 

Home wasn’t here.   
Home was faraway. 

_{We can go home Lance, we don’t have to stay here, with the Paladins, who don’t care for you.}_ Lance hears the words, his body finding that flicker of light the creature holds out for him. “I want to go home,” he says, tears tracking lines down his face.   
_{Yes, we can go home. Let’s go back to them.}_  
“I want to go home.”  
 _{Then we’ll go. Leave your body here and we can go back to them, back to the only people that have ever cared for you. Back to the family who want you, need you, love you.} _

Lance nods numbly, ready to let go—  
“Paladin?” 

Lance jolted upright, hands clawing on the railing as his body tilted forward, the looming height too… ‘beneath him’ as his body leaned to greet it. _How? When did he—?_  
Lance pushed back, his heart thundering in his chest, throwing his legs back to the floor, moving away from the seventeen floor drop, the only movement his body allowed him as he woke from the nightmare of falling. His body stilled, impossibly cold, not sure if he was imagining the dark laughter that brushed against the nape of his neck. “Anadón?” But the shadow-beast wasn’t there. 

“Paladin? Are you okay?” It is a Trigamon that calls him, him who pulled him back from the edge of falling. Their fur is light blue, the familiarity a scratch in the record in Lance’s mind, unable to name him in his mind. Another two are with him, identical except their fur markings of green and silver. Again, familiar but nothing that sticks out in Lance’s mind.   
His head throbs at the strain of trying to remember, hands on his head, blocked by his helmet he still wears. _Wait, he’s still wearing his helmet?_

“Blue Paladin?” The Aliens call to him, concern in their words. Lance hears his own voice. _I can’t let anyone see my weakness. I can’t let anyone think Voltron is weak._  
“I’m sorry, I was watching the stars,” Lance says, looking back to the ceiling and beyond to the vastness of space. He notes the glimmering light is gone, the walls no longer refracting light like a vision underwater, now just the smooth white metal of the Altean Castle. _It was in his mind,_ he thinks sadly, searching for the feeling of calm, but it has been taken from him. Anadón still hasn’t reappeared. 

“You watch the stars from here?” the silver Trigamon asks looking up to the ceiling, its ears turning this way and that as they speaks. The inflection of their voice is gentler than the first two. Female.   
“Not always. But here is quiet.”   
The Trigamon nods, almost knowingly, her ears dropping down slightly. She reminds Lance of Anadón when he was simply a shadow-cat. She has the same round eyes; yellow, flecked with green marks. Her fur holds the same colour of forestry, lightening around its large owl eyes and at the tips of its jowl. 

“Do you want to join them?”   
The question is odd and it throws Lance off balance. His mind jumps to home and his family, a fear bubbling up from the emptiness, wondering if the alien has the ability to read his mind. Had she heard Lance’s thoughts about wanting to leave the team, or had she simply called out to stop Lance from jumping.   
Was Lance… _going to jump?_

Unsure what he should say, Lance forced a smile. “I don’t know what you mean, I’m sorry.”   
“The others,” the Trigamon says simply, glancing over the ledge, pointing down below to the figures of his friends gathered in the Entrance Hall with the rest of the Trigamon guests.   
_Friends._ The word is bitter, even in his own head. They’re all there, full of smiles, not a care for the missing Blue Paladin who stands far above. But he can’t show them he is better. It would disrupt the balance of Voltron, it would be his fault. _{But you don’t care for them. Why do you remain beneath their feet when you don’t have to?}_  
It is Anadón’s voice. Lance searches for him, but he is still gone. Only Lance and the three Trigamon remain. 

“Will you join them?”   
“No.” The answer is quick and blunt. No, Lance does not want to join them. He doesn’t want to fake smiles anymore, he doesn’t want Shiro’s help or Keith’s glares. He doesn’t want to pretend he’s okay, he doesn’t want the others fussing over him or listening to their stupid pitying remarks that hide their true desire underneath. _“Give up already.”_

Lance casts the Paladins a long hard look, something clicking in the back of his mind. Shiro and Keith are no longer in the training hall. He can go train again, get better, get stronger. He can prove that he is meant to be a Paladin and they’ll be forced to stop wanting to replace him. 

“You don’t want to be with them?”  
Lance looks down at the inquisitive little runt with all its questions and fake concern. He keeps the anger from his expression, closed behind cold eyes. She looks up at him, head tilted like a young child that cannot understand when it’s not wanted.   
Her eyes are too wide, too big, an unsettlement squirming inside the Human once again. It’s like she can see right through him. 

“They’re busy,” he says, voice curt, face turned. _Leave me,_ he thinks, but the creatures ignore the standoffish attitude, the three of them moving closer. “They’re saying goodbye. We’re leaving soon.”   
“Your ship is finished being fixed then,” Lance supplies, biting down on his lips in self-directed anger. It was in his nature to be polite, even as he stood there, wanting nothing more than silence and solitude away from the inquisitive little shits that can’t pick up on the way he stands, his arms folded, his eyes deliberately cast away to avoid a continued moment of conversation. 

“The ship is fixed enough for us to return. Then it will be discarded. It has served its purpose.” When they turn back to him, all three of them watching with wide round eyes, Lance pulls his copyright smile, widening it when the Trigamons smile back, still oblivious to his growing hatred towards them.   
They know, he thinks angrily. _They know I want peace and they’re not leaving me alone, just like everyone else who wants to “help” who are just nosy, who can’t trust me on my own because they think I’m going to kill myself or screw up or—_

_{Calm Lance, they are not the ones you hate.}_  
Anadón is beside him once again, his body pressing against Lance’s to keep him standing, a gentle nudge to his hand that holds his bayard, although Lance didn’t realise he had drawn it.   
Neither had the Trigamon, who still watched the Paladins say farewell to their crew far below, the three of them talking quickly clicking to one another in small voices Lance didn’t care to hear. He stashed his bayard back in its storage module before they could see that he, a Paladin of Voltron, sworn to protect the Universe, had almost raised his weapon against them. 

“Blue Paladin—”  
“If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere I need to be,” Lance interrupts bluntly, turning without a backwards glance, Anadón at his heel as they, once more, head to the Training Deck to practice and progress.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

When the doors to the training hall opened, the team was met with the sight of Lance, once again battling the castle combatants without his bayard. But not pinned or cussing beneath the body of a gladiator like last time, but calm and collected as Anadón stood beside him; a second pair of eyes that helped keep him balanced, focused in the moment of sparring.  
His opponent was disarmed too, ducking in low to aim for Lance’s chest. He kept himself high, dominant foot forward as he angled his body, making himself a smaller target. The blow flew past, Lance reaching out with his right to punch the gladiator in its ocular sensor, his favoured target. But the fist missed and he was forced back, waiting for the second fist to swing at him. He grabbed it, carried its momentum up and round, pinning the gladiators wrist behind its back. Anyone would feel pain and surrender with force on the shoulder – enough would break it – but the gladiator wouldn’t register until Lance slammed his elbow down on the back of its neck, crippling its movements, the robot stumbling to the floor accompanied by a little power down frequency, signifying Lance had completed the “block and control” training simulation.

The Blue Paladin let out an excited whoop, turning to Anadón to revel in his victory, only then catching sight of his gathered audience. Hunk and Pidge stood with wide eyes and bright smiles, Keith simply shocked. Shiro just looked angry.   
“Lance, what did I tell you about training alone!” he snapped, closing the distance towards the sparring ring, pointedly searching for Lance’s bayard, yet the boy still had it on him, simply tucked away on his hip. 

“You told me not to,” Lance growled, not bothering to hide his irritation, matching Shiro’s tone as he marched closer.   
They were here to stop him, always getting in his way. He wanted to grow stronger, for them, _but they never gave him the chance, always babying him, always thinking they knew him, never letting him have his own space—  
{Calm Lance. The time will come.} _

Man and beast stood together, their shared anger facing the Paladins that approached. Shiro’s eyes were wary, brought about from the tone of the Blue’s voice; clipped, short. _Angry._  
He stood up taller, his tone softening a little. Maybe it was with Lance’s deadpan attitude, or the drawl in his voice that was very unlike him.   
So? He was angry at Keith. Angry at Shiro. And tired. _So damn tired._  
The boy’s mind pulled him back to the balcony. He’d rather much be there than here. 

“Lance—”   
“I want to train Shiro. You can’t keep stopping me. I’m healed already; never mind the cryo-chamber.” Lance felt his body tense, returning to a fight stance to prepare himself against the Black Paladins orders.   
_They’re keeping me from my full potential. They’re holding me back so when the time comes to replace me—_

“It’s not about stopping you; it’s about you pushing yourself. Training is good, and you’re getting better I can see that, just from that there,” Shiro says, nodding towards the Gladiator that still remains crumpled on the floor. “But, Lance you’re doing it by yourself. What if something happens? What if you’re knocked unconscious or your hurt yourself bad and no one is here to help you?”  
“Keith trains by himself, and you never say anything to him about it,” Lance said, folding his arms to give them something to do, his fingers twitching as he struggles to contain the growing anger inside of him. Anadón can smell it, practically taste it, but he devours none, letting the emotion grow in strength. Soon, it will consume the Human boy. 

“I trust Keith to be able to take care of himself,” Shiro said, moving closer, words faltering, but Lance had already heard it: The unspoken comparison that always lingers over Lance’s head whenever the Red Paladin is brought into play. 

_I trust Keith. I just don’t trust you._

Now, Lance was a team player, always looking out for the group when they treated him like dirt they could sweep under the carpet. It was only Keith that would insult him directly and he accepted that, because everyone, even Voltron needed a black sheep to vent on from time to time.   
If he was to be useful to them in anyway, he thought he could be the black sheep, the jokester; the court jester who refused to fall to the weight of reality. He wanted to keep them happy, to take their pain and let them focus on the war because _that_ was what mattered. Victory.   
Victory over his own feelings, his own importance because Lance _wasn’t_ important. He wasn’t even a real paladin, just a stand in, a substitute until they found a successor—

_{Focus Lance. You’re losing yourself.}_

Lance grounded himself in the anger, eyes on Shiro who didn’t trust him. He had never called out his inability as blatantly as he had been doing. And now, in front of the team, challenging Lance to fight him, to break their bonds so they can wipe their hands of him.   
_Well if that is what they want._

“Fine, you don’t trust me. What else do you want to get off your chest?” Lance shot back. Carelessly. Unthinking.   
But Shiro started this fight first. He’s just as bad as Keith, always thinking he’s right, tossing Lance to the side like a bone for a dog, not even stopping to think that Lance has something to offer, that Lance is there, not to slow them down, but to help. 

“That’s not what I… I didn’t mean…”   
Shiro stopped. Reassessed. Tried again. “It’s not about Keith training by himself, this is about you.”  
“Why? Because you don’t think I can do it by myself? Or is it _because_ it’s me.”   
Shiro’s weariness returned; his voice soft. “Lance, what do you mean by that?”   
“You know very well what I mean,” Lance spat, anger like poison on his tongue. Shiro reeled back in shock, Hunk and Pidge alarmed in his peripheral, but before any of them could ask Lance if he was okay, Keith stepped in. 

“Don’t speak to him like that! Look, whatever’s up with you at the moment is your problem, but stop taking out on him. He’s just trying to help.”  
“Oh, and you are too?” Lance growled, turning agitation on the Red. “You think, just because you think you know more than them that you know what’s going on. But then, I’ve bet you already told them,” he said, eyes narrowing into a glare. “I bet you told them as soon as I turned my back, all of you, having a lovely little tea party without me while you talked about all my mistakes—”   
“I didn’t say anything,” Keith growled, stepping closer. Lance’s stance changed instinctively. Keith noticed, eyes on the boy’s clenched fists, but said nothing. 

“You made me promise and I kept that promise. But then you clammed up and you didn’t say anything to anyone, so of course we’re going to worry about you—”  
“Worry about me?” Lance scoffed, his smile fake. Always fucking fake in front of them, lest they see his true feelings, his fears, his weaknesses.   
“Yes worry about you! These past few days have been stressful enough, and this is the third time me and Shiro have caught you in here when we all know you still need to heal properly. We even said, “don’t train until Coran has checked you over,” but you didn’t listen and you’re back here. 

“Recklessness is meant to be my flaw Lance, not yours.”

_[But this recklessness is expected of the Red One. I did not think you capable.]_  
Blue’s words. Blue’s disappointment. 

Keith saw the damage the memory brought, Lance’s anger suddenly replaced by an intense sadness that washed through his body like a flood, draining him of energy. His stance dropped, his fists released into empty hands that hung limp at his sides.   
“Lance—”  
“Just drop it alright. I’m not going to discuss _feelings_ with you, because it’s convenient now,” he said, voice taut, turning his gaze to Anadón who spat its black tongue out at the Red Paladin, turning back to give Lance a warm smile. The boy didn’t reciprocate, only lifting his head when he heard the sounds of the Paladins closing the distance that stood thick and un-breachable between them.   
Shiro was staring questioningly at Keith, but the Red’s eyes remained on the Blue. Lance made a point of ignoring him. 

It was Hunk’s turn to play diplomat. “Lance, what’s going on,” he asked, voice soft and calm, like one would speak to a cornered puppy. Lance isn’t a puppy. He’s a beast with his back to a wall, and any minute he’s going to lash out. 

“Nothing Hunk, leave it be,” Lance says, his voice like steel as he speaks, eyes on Anadón and no one else. His monster watches him, not doing anything to devour the flames of rage that flicker inside Lance’s heart. He thinks he can hear a voice calling to him, the other Paladin’s raising their heads too, but _they can’t hear her, she’s only in his head._  
But she’s not because she’s refusing to speak to him, she hates him, he’s nothing but a disappointment—

“Lance—”  
“I said leave it Hunk,” Lance growled, turning his glare to one who had once called friend. Something reminiscent of guilt surged at the look of shock on the boy’s face, but Anadón gorged on it before Lance could be sure. At least that was one less feeling to feel.

Hunk dropped whatever concern he had, sharing it with the others. Lance rejected their looks as he turned to his only friend, listening to his calming words, listening to the inflection of his tone, lulled by his words, letting them wash over him.   
He liked the warmth of the water that wrapped around him, not soaking deep enough to quell the flames, pulling him down in the warmth.   
His fists clenched and unclenched in uneven pattern, his heart beating too fast, too loud in his chest despite the warmth that Anadón wrapped him in. He felt his feathers brushing up against his neck; he heard the tapping of his claws upon the training deck, the cool smooth sound of his tail dragging on the metal, the gentle rustling of his black cloak ruffled in a non-existent breeze. 

Lance’s brain was on fire, but Anadón kept him calm, kept his emotions in check as he stood there, dissonant. With the team but entirely separate.   
They were speaking. He was vaguely aware of sounds just outside his understanding, their lights flickering in the dark as his eyes fell closed. Sweat rolled down pale skin, the lasting taste of blood upon his tongue, the heaving of his lungs that hide behind the armour of cool, collected Lance who said nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. 

Until his name was called. 

The boy looked up, to familiar faces, wearing masks. Only Shiro was brave enough to call out to him, to be the one that Lance directed his anger. “Lance, are you listening?”  
 _How chivalrous._

“What’s there to listen to? We’re here to spar or fight robots. We’ve done it plenty of times; we don’t need an inspiring war speech before every session.” His tone got varying degrees of emotions, but Lance rolled his eyes.  
They were just like Coran, babying one another. It was war; there was no room for training wheels. Keith had the right idea in constant training, pushing himself, progressing and learning. Lance would never tell him that though. No, he wouldn’t tell him anything anymore, he wouldn’t trust any of them anymore. 

“It was just an explanation,” Pidge said, giving as good as they got. So it looked like Shiro wasn’t the only one brave enough to stand up to him. Even if it was the green ankle biter that didn’t do much more than go invisible and electrocute robots. Shit, Lance did more than them and he _still_ got kicked to the curb. 

“I was explaining the programming again, only because you weren’t there when me and Keith discussed it,” they said, throwing a hand towards the computer that never left their vicinity. Cross-legged, they sank down in front of it and began typing and rambling at once, the words flying over Lance’s head, testing his patience as the Gremlin mocked him with subtext.   
“So, I was talking with Hunk about the Comms system, because although it’s all well and good we can hear one another, that line of transmission can always be hacked or interfered with, just like the jamming signal Lance encountered back when we were facing the pirates,” they said, followed by a meaningful peek in his direction. Lance’s face of thunder warned them back to their bubble and they didn’t look at him for the remainder of the explanation.   
“But I was thinking, why stop at just a secure Comms system, when I can get the visors to give us so much more information. It’s just on trial basis at the moment. I was running the programme through a beta tester whilst Hunk and I were on the asteroid, but it wasn’t really testing the perimeters of the electrocardimeter and the scopes that I’ve uploaded into our suits. Well not yours Lance, I haven’t had a chance to grab yours off you.” They rightly remembered not to lift their head. It didn’t matter. Lance wasn’t paying too much attention.   
There was vague understanding from him, but he wasn’t in the mood for standing around and talking. If they were here to train, he wanted to get to it and shift the weight off his chest. Sparring with the castle combatants helped relieved his stress. He was beginning to understand why Keith always found himself here. 

Green was still talking.   
“Okay, so Shiro, I know you wanted to do a team exercise first, we haven’t been able to considering the Trigamon have been here, and yeah I know they’re gone now, but if we run these tests, then I can fix the bugs in my spare time. I just want to watch the meters for a bit before I turn them on and let them record. If not I’m collecting inconclusive data and that helps no one.” Pidge was rambling about this that and whatnot. _Whatever._ It made no sense to Lance so he didn’t even bother focusing.   
However, his mind caught on a few words. _What did she mean the Trigamon were gone?_ But Lance was just talking to one- to three of them up at the top of the Entrance Hall. They others were there, below, with the team but… _what?_ No, it didn’t make sense. What was happening?

“—ance, did you get that?”   
They’re all staring at him. Lance stares back, but offers no lie. _No more lying. No more faking it._ They were going to see what they were turning him into, whether they wanted to or not. 

Keith mumbled some insult under his breath, Lance ready to bite from the jab to his intelligence. It was minor, probably something he would’ve once brushed under the carpet. But Lance wasn’t himself. He hadn’t been himself for a long time. 

“Watch it Mullet.”   
“Or what? You’ll teach me a lesson?”  
“If you keep it up, yeah I might,” Lance growled, readying himself to bait Keith into a spar. That way at least he could physically show the boy up. Then he might not be Shiro’s favourite and they’d start taking him seriously. _It could actually work._

“Stop it the pair of you. If you two want to keep fighting, then do it in the sparring ring and stop it with all this childish bickering.”   
Lance scowled angrily at Shiro who stepped in before the vocal spat could turn physical.   
He was ready to retort to his careless words, but Lance got a hand raised to him instead. “We’re here to train and that’s what we’re going to do.” He turned from the Blue then, back to his other favourite. “Pidge, how long will it take to get Lance’s suit calibrated with your programme?”  
“A few ticks.”  
“Alright. While you’re setting that up, Hunk, Keith and I will warm-up. As soon as you’re done, we can work on your experiments. Then afterwards we can bond or whatever and put this problem behind us.”   
_He means me,_ Lance thought bitterly, hands in fists once more. 

Meaningful glances were shared all round. Shiro’s eyes stayed on the Blue Soldier longer than the others, questions plaguing his mind, but with the boy’s current attitude, unlike him and unexplained. He didn’t feel like he could ask in front of everyone without receiving more defence against the matter.

Keith’s words confused him, as did Lance’s disputing replies, but neither would lie about… _about what?  
Torous, _was the answer and he already knew. Something more had happened than either had agreed to speak about, and the change in Lance that followed told him that what had happened wasn’t good...


	9. A Want To Conquer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance’s bonds with Voltron are being pushed to the limit. Where once stood friends, now he can only see enemies he needs to defend himself from. Anadón is the strongest he’s ever been, pushing Lance further from the team. But can they bring him back before he is completely consumed by the darkness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, Lance baits Keith, and his words get VERY personal –like racist personal. He’s had enough of the team and caring for them is gone. Insults and fighting ensue. 
> 
> Warning: VERY ANGSTY CHAPTER!!

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Outer Asteroid Belt

Lance stood waiting on the far side of the sparring ring, his helmet in his hands as he inspected the new device that sat just on the inside lip of the rim, secured with good-old-fashioned duct tape. Or, Sap Tape, as the Alteans named their alien counterpart. At least the alternative did its job, and the memory card, programmed with Pidge’s genius didn’t move when Lance pushed his head into his helmet once more, giving it a little tap to drop the visor completely, as Pidge had instructed him to do. _Like he didn’t know how to do it.  
{It means nothing Osito, ignore it} _Anadón called to him, but the words are simply ignored. Lance doesn’t want them, doesn’t want to ignore it. If the Gremlin wants to treat him like an idiot, then he’ll prove them wrong. He’ll prove them all wrong.

When the glass dropped, the inside of the visor flickered to life. Lance watched as the programmed starts reeling off information, his display now looking more like the inside of Blue’s Cockpit. It’s his own information he’s reading, although it only shows his heart rate counter and a string of number next to different acronyms. They mean nothing to Lance, so they’re ignored. 

Pidge has set themselves up against the far wall, away from the spacious training ring so that they can monitor from a distance, without getting in the way of any spars. Hunk has taken residence beside them, sat cross legged as they watch Pidge hook Keith and Lance up remotely to the monitors that they have employed within the paladin suits. 

Shiro is next to Keith. They’re exchanging words in slight whispers.   
_{You think they they’re talking about you?}_ Anadón asks. There’s an edge to his words, but Lance doesn’t want to bite. He just wants Keith in close range of his second mark and plenty of time to use it against him. 

Anadón says nothing to the thoughts, returning himself to the task of watching, mirroring Shiro’s movements as he steps away from the Red Paladin with a final nod of his head. Keith supplied his own, turning to face Lance, readying his arms up, sword drawn, preparing for the spar. They’re fighters in a ring, each with their own supporters, competing for something more than Pidge’s data.   
For Keith it’s a chance to show off in front of the others.  
For Lance, it’s a chance to prove himself as strong as them, stronger even. It’s a chance for him to show them he’s not a nobody, that he deserves to fight alongside them, as a true Paladin of Voltron. 

Lance brings out his bayard, holding it protectively over his chest as he too, reading himself like Keith has done. His mind is working overtime, playing on the words that Anadón has whispered to him. They’re hooked in his mind, running around his head in a constant loop, growing in power with every echo, every repeat, getting louder and heavier.

_{There’s no gain here for him. If he wins, he gets to prove us wrong; he gets to prove you’re weaker, that he’s still better than you._

_Don’t let him win.}_

Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win. Don’t let him win—

“Alright, so just fight like normal guys,” Pidge calls from their corner, the programme making communicative little beeps as the links to the computer settle and strengthen. Lance’s visor flashes again, Keith’s information added as Pidge’s programme in his visor scans the Red Paladin. Heart rate, vital target points all of it colour-coded Red, lights up the left side, opposite his own information, all of it barely encroaching on his field of vision. 

“Cool Pidge. Very Iron Man,” Hunk laughed, speaking the words the old Lance would’ve once said, if he wasn’t looking for a lecture on being serious and not taking everything like it’s one giant game.   
“Thanks Hunk. I was trying to go for the whole “robot aesthetic,” but also remembering to bear in mind that I have to keep the functionability of the system working at the same time.”  
“Well I think you’ve got that down. And I get Keith and Lance’s colours, but what about the Galra?”   
“Purple of course.” 

_At least Hunk’s jokes aren’t ignored,_ Lance thought bitterly, listening to the wittering that is taking place to his left. But it’s not relevant right now, so he turned his face away, blocking out the surrounding distractions, gearing himself up for a fight like he does before every mission. He’d going to fight like his life depends on it. Otherwise, what’s the point in half-ass training?   
_They’re babying us again,_ he thinks, adjusting his grip on his bayard, centring his mind. 

Without reason or a palpable thought process, he begins to monitor his own heart beat. It’s flickering somewhere between 74 and 75bpm, climbing as he continues to watch it, whilst Keith’s remains on a steady 56bpm.   
The anger alone spikes his heart rate another five beats.

Keith is distracted by the readings of his own helmet display, asking Pidge if all of the information he’s sees is necessary. “I’m running tests and I want data,” is all they decide to answer with, pulling on their headphones before Keith can argue, giving a thumbs up to signify the all clear to Shiro.   
He nods. 

He’s in the middle now, still stood slightly to the side, out of the sparring ring, simply remaining on the side lines.   
Opposite him, concealed in the privacy of the Blue’s mind, is Anadón. He’s fixated on the Black Paladin, face marred by a tense hatred that has his feathers ruffled and his claws tapping on the tiled floor, pacing back and forth, his huge body intimidating enough. But Shiro can’t see him and the show is for Lance’s imagination only, wishing that he _did_ have a beast like Anadón to release upon the Paladins. If he had control over something like that, he might get a little respect. 

_{You have your own power Lance, you don’t need mine,}_ Anadón tells him. He continues his pacing, his claws tapping the floor with each slow, calculated step. _Tap, tap, tap._

“Alright, let’s start out slow and steady. Lance, I know you’ve been sparring so you’re already warmed up. Keith, he’s still getting back on his feet so go easy on him.”   
_Easy on me?_ Lance watched his heart rate hit 84 and knows Keith can see it too. Comparing it to the Red’s controlled heartbeat, Lance can feel his own anger grow. 

“Don’t bother,” Lance snarls out loud. “If you’re not going to fight me for real then sit down and I’ll spar with a bot again. At least then I can have a decent fight.”  
Keith scowls. “Baiting me is useless Lance. You won’t throw me off balance so easily.”  
“No?” Lance asks mockingly, a little smile playing on his lips. It must’ve been seen as fake, because Keith’s stance tenses. He looks unsure, the emotion giving Lance a boost of confidence that solidifies on the smirk that sits on his lips. 

Lance just wanted to get on with it. He was vaguely aware of a craving for _Eyre,_ his mouth feeling dry and tingly, but at least the pain of his body was still numbed. His emotions, however, remained unchecked. The longer he stood there, the stronger they built up inside him, raging like a tempest of fire and water, fighting inside him, vying for the spotlight in his body that shuddered, skin running hot and cold.   
His skin glistened with sweat, easily disguised from his earlier training, but Lance knew that wasn’t the case. It would worry him if he cared for himself, but he didn’t, he had other things to focus on. 

Keith.   
Proving him wrong. 

_{Calm yourself.}_  
Anadón spoke with conviction. He was opposite the boy now, their faces opposite, eyes boring deep into Lance’s mind, pulling him back from the anger for a moment.   
The words were offered as mantra. Lance took them and whispered them deep within himself; his breathing steadying, his heart slowing and the fire in his chest compressed into white, hot light. Pure energy to release at his will. 

They were to begin, Keith distracted from Lance as he monitored him through his helmet screen. Disrespectful. But then, Keith didn’t respect Lance at all. None of them did, not really. If they did, then they wouldn’t be trying to kick him off the team, trying to break their bond.   
They don’t even respect him enough to tell him the _truth._

“You’re not acting right,” Keith says, eyes narrowing, watching the way the boy stands, the glitch in his stature as he flexes his fingers, his body not quite standing right, not relaxed like the normal Lance.   
He’s only just beginning to pick up on the anger that swarms the boy that stands before him. But Lance isn’t just drinking it, he’s drowning in it— No; he _enjoys_ it, _revels_ in its warmth and the promise of power it brings.   
He knows how to bait Keith; the half-breed is predictable, his weaknesses lying in his mental and emotional state, less in the prowess of his fighting art.   
Lance knows how he can unsettle him and tip victory towards his favour. And _oh, how he’s going to enjoy it._

“And how the hell am I supposed to act? I’m not a soldier, I sure as hell am not a puppet and I’m not some mindless robot either. I’m human.” Lance let his smirk fall heavy on his features, just to emphasise he knew _exactly_ what he was saying. 

“So tell me, _Galra,_ how am I supposed to act?”

Lance enjoyed hitting below the belt. It made everyone’s face twist ugly.   
Keith’s face most of all, who looked like Lance had just shoved a hot poker down his throat, laughing as he did. Lance practically was, if Keith could see his grin through the two-foot-totem-pole’s programme display that showed his opponents steady rising heart-rate. 

The Red’s eyes flared in rage, his body moving quicker than Shiro’s reflexes, who is the only one closest enough to try and grab him – failing – and now Keith’s got one hand around Lance’s throat, the fingers pushing against the boy’s neck where he shoves them in underneath his helmet. The pressure there is meant to hurt him, but Lance feels nothing other than the discomfort when he laughs.   
He’s laughing because it’s funny. They don’t usually listen to him, but when they do it resorts to this. What isn’t there to laugh at?

“Whatch’ya gonna do? Hit me until I stop talking?” he chuckles. “Then doesn’t that make you just like the rest of them, kicking everyone else into submission until you’re on top and the rest of us are left to pick up the pieces.”   
Keith’s eyes are narrowed, but his mouth is slack. Lance has left him speechless. It’s satisfying.   
“Careful Galra. Don’t get too excited or you’ll show them your real colours.” 

The words force Keith to release the Sharpshooter. He takes several steps back, snarling in anger, but makes no further attempts at hurting the Blue.   
Lance isn’t finished. “Oh c’mon Keith, this is all a part of the fight. You never know when you’re going to face someone with a motor mouth, trying to get under your skin. Shiro never considered it, and look where it got him. Tortured and abused by the witch, so much so that the mere thought of her has him quivering with his tail between his legs—”  
“Shut up!” Keith growled; a flick of his wrist and his bayard gleams in the mark of his sword. Lance looked to it, his own pride swelling in his chest when he remembers his second mark. Not just a different style gun, but a completely new weapon, just like Zarkon had been able to do.   
_None of the team could do that yet._

“Shut up Lance,” Keith keeps yelling, his eyes flashing wide. Lance thinks he’s sees yellow and suddenly he is filled with fear. Anadón steals the feeling from him, giving back his focus so he can continue to taunt and bait the other into fighting, letting everything go.   
“Oh, did that hit a nerve?” he scoffs, showing off a smile that he is sure to get the other’s back up. “So it’s not your own pride you’re worried about, but Shiro’s instead.   
“What? Can he not defend himself? Although, I guess that is kind of obvious seeing as he _was_ a prisoner of the Galra for a year. Shame you weren’t with him. I bet you could’ve gotten him out if you just asked your cousin for a favour or something.” 

“Shut up!” the boy yelled again, notably shaken by Lance’s incessant taunts, his usual _I-couldn’t-care-less_ attitude swallowed by his own frustration. “If you want me to shut up, you’ll have to do it yourself,” Lance says. “C’mon Keith, see if you can do it. Let go. Let it all go and actually try and beat me.” 

Keith’s patience, already worn thin, _snapped._ He launched himself towards Lance, ignoring Shiro’s commanding yell that told him to stop. No, Keith was going to shut Lance up. He had no right to say those things about him, about Shiro.   
_Something’s not right_ nagged at the back of his mind, but already a victim to anger, Keith felt himself body moving, his mind simply chasing after the actions that saw him swing his sword towards Lance’s unguarded body, his bayard still not drawn, loosely held in one hand, his entire body defenceless against Keith’s sword. It’s in motion; he can’t stop it, cleaving down towards Lance’s body that remains still, giving Keith a perfect target. 

But just as the bayard sliced through the air to where Lance’s shoulder stood, his lower half twisted, turning his body a perfect ninety degrees, now the path of the sword cleaving through thin air and nothing more. Lance smiled to himself, and stepped back, away from Keith, paused, wide eyes.   
Lance tutted. “You’ll have to try better than that.” He linked wrists behind his back and stood facing Keith. “Again.”   
He barked the word like an order, and like the mongrel Keith was, he obeyed. Right slash, left slash. Lance simply out-stepped each movement, his sneer growing as he realised his opponent still wasn’t taking him seriously. Keith was holding back, not fighting all out like he would against a real opponent. But Lance _is_ a opponent, and such novelties like _“not wanting to hurt a teammate”_ can be very damaging. Lance suppressed a scoff. Keith doesn’t even think of him as a real teammate. This Human sentimentality is his weakness. Just like his heritage, his boundless love for Shiro—  
 _{Is that jealousy Lance}_ Anadón chides from the edge of the sparring ring, tapping its claws to the sound of the boy’s dancing steps. _Tap, tap, tap._

_No. Not jealously. Not anymore._

Keith stepped in, Lance lifting his leg and booted him backwards. Keith couldn’t keep his feet, tripped, fell, scrambling up to protect himself but Lance hasn’t moved. Some tiny voice inside him is calling the Blue’s name. It’s pained and panicked, but nothing can be heard over the sound of the ocean in Lance’s ears. A torrent of bottled anger, sharp feelings of hatred he can’t explain, nor feels any need to find the reasonings behind them.   
He’s drowning in a tide of emotion, slowly losing the grip on the storm that swells and batters him from the inside. He is the rock that stands in the ocean, worn away into sand until there’s nothing left but sea and sand and tide and water.   
Water that rises and falls in great ocean waves. Powerful, unrestrained. 

_Tap, tap, tap._

Lance is the ocean.   
Lance is the tide that will wash away the darkness. But first, he has to find his throne.   
He has to find his place to stand and command the waves, _become_ the waves and the tempests that batter and break ships that don’t respect him. 

Lance is the ocean.   
_And he’s not going to bow to a child._

“My turn,” he smiles, and ignoring Shiro’s commands to stop, Lance launches himself across the training deck with a deafening battle cry. Keith’s eyes are wide in shock, but Lance isn’t playing. _Fight like your life depends on it. Otherwise, what’s the point in trying?_

He lets instinct move his body; his blood turns to saltwater, liquid and fluid as it rushes up the beach, over the pebbles, the stones, filling the rock pools with the power of the sea, with life, with _life._ And the ocean can take as easily as it gives. 

_Up the beach it pushes, further and further to the unsuspecting child that stands on the golden sands, in love with the white wash bubbles._

Lance leans to the left, his knees touching the floor as he dodges a sword swipe, his shield giving him a weapon to slam down on the back of Keith’s legs as he rolls behind him, slow, like the waves that rush back to the tide. 

_Come child._  
The water is warm.   
The water is soft.   
The water is safe. 

_The ocean lulls the child closer and closer, the gentle waves powerless and simple. They reach up the beach, to the sand, taking pebbles and shells, unearthing the crabs that slumber under the sand._

Lance jumps back and ducks, feeling the movement of Keith’s bayard move where his head was, the scanners on his helmet glitching as their heartbeats begin to pace, Anadón calling out for Lance to dodge as he sees Keith’s right foot step in to unbalance him. Lance pivots, elbow into Keith’s right side, his bayard brought around to lock with Keith’s sword. It is still the handle configuration. Keith sees it and glowers from behind his visor. “What are you doing Lance? Take this seriously,” he yells, because he thinks he knows Lance, he thinks the human is still playing around, that he’s not luring the half-breed into a trap. 

_Yes, that’s it child._  
The water is soft.   
The water is safe. 

_The child is on the edge of the shore now, laughing as the white wash covers his toes, squealing because it’s colder than he thought it would be. But the boy is smiling, the grin on his face a beautiful picture of bliss and happiness. He waves to his Mama on the beach who is putting sun lotion on the sibling; the sibling who wants to join their brother in the surf.  
But the ocean wants this child. Not that one. _

The constant of back and forth is starting to get irritating. Lance isn’t tired from fighting, but he doesn’t think the half-breed is going to understand that he can’t keep holding back. Lance doesn’t want to hold back, but something is doing it for him. 

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Anadón let me go,” he growls under his breath, but Anadón is beside him, dancing into his vision as he calls out another move. Lance obeys, his body falling limp to duck underneath the half-breed’s blow, reaching up to grab his opponent and kick him over his body. _{I’m not holding you back Osito, that’s all on you.}_  
But it’s not. 

It’s _her._  
She’s still calling out to him, the world shaking around them as she slams her body against the wall that blocks her from her Paladin, her memory holding him back before he shatters the bond of the Paladins. 

“It’s not me,” Lance growls, standing, fighting the coolness in his mind. It is different to the heat of Anadón’s flame. He sends his monster to fight her, leaving him to face the Red. 

Lance’s right arm won’t listen to him for a moment and he watches the half-breed charge, his sword raised, a plan forming in his mind as he prepares himself. He won’t feel pain, he knows that. And it’ll show them all just how serious he is. 

So when the Galra charges in, blade to Lance’s chest, the boy turns. But not out of the way, but into the blade, feeling it jar in the crease of his armour, where one piece joined the other; the space between them unprotected and giving, letting the blade pass through with ease.   
The sickening noise of metal on flesh, the warmth of blood as it was released from its cage, spilling out over the white of the suit, the white of the blade, the noise of bubbling warmth mixed with the cry of shock from the Galra, the faked cry of pain from the Human who had brought it upon himself. He stumbled back, making a show of pain, feeling nothing but the joy at the horror on the boy’s face.   
He kept himself standing, three paces back, and again, Anadón stood between him and his opponent before he faked another cry, his body slouched, buckling to one knee, clutching at the warmth under his fingers. 

The room fills with noise.   
Voices loud, tilted in shock and concern, the thundering of footsteps, a distant roar and an emptiness in Lance’s mind as he cries echo from far away; spurring the Galra who has frozen from shock at the realisation he has _hurt Lance._

_The ocean pulls back, the waves revealing wet sand and a thousand shimmering stones; gems in the sunlight that glitters and blinks.  
The child beams. There are purple ones, pink ones, blue ones that size of his hand, yellow ones that lay deeper, far taller than him. The ocean has opened him to this paradise. The ocean has given him the sight of its secret garden and he, privileged, runs forward unthinkingly. _

The Galra would take the opportunity to take their opponent.   
_This_ Galra would too, but Lance knows he’s weak and he’s not fighting like his life depends on it. 

But Lance is.   
Lance is fighting for his place amongst the Paladins.   
He has everything to prove and everything to lose. 

_The ocean pulls back further, letting the strength build in the waves, watching the child run further from the shore…._

“Oh my god Lance, I’m so sorry,” the Red says, spurred by the voices, rushing forward in his hast, his bayard falling limp at his side. He doesn’t realise they’re still fighting. 

_The child runs further, laughing as the tide bends back, further and further._  
“Lance, I didn’t meant to—”  
 _The child races to the waves, further from his mother._  
“I just got angry—”

_“LANCE!”_

_The mother screams, but it’s too late.  
The wave is released. It rushes inland, the arc rising, falling, rises and falls, crashing like thunder around the child that has fallen prey to the beauty of the underwater garden. He is lifted up by the power and dragged down with wet watery hands that hold tight to ankles and wrists, the sweet kisses that fill his lungs with ocean life, fingers carding through his hair, stroking his cheek, shushing the scream, wiping the tears. _

_And the tide turns at the wailing of the mother. The child is gone in the froth of white bubbles and emerald waves which enticed the child to his doom, for the beauty and the softness of the playful water._

_The water is soft.  
The water is safe. _

_The water will be his grave._

Lance waited until a hand was on his shoulder, concern pulling the opponent in.   
Lance pushed in, pushed up, shoving his bayard into the underside of the Galra’s right arm. He can’t tell if the crack is a rib, or a figment of his imagination, but the cry of pain is all too real.   
The Blue dropped again, foot to the chest and _pushed,_ watching the Red stumble, fall, roll onto his knees and up again at the sudden realisation that Lance was _still fighting._

“What did I tell you,” he laughed, dragging off his helmet in anger, tossing it to the side. “Don’t go easy on me. If you’re not going to fight me for real, then give up and I’ll fight someone else.” 

Blood filled Lance’s mouth and he spat it out, raised his hands, balanced his weight and glared at the Red. “We’re not done fighting yet. Neither of us has fallen.” His bayard is raised before the Black can call out, three warning shots fired off where the Red still stands. None hit, of course they don’t, that’s not their purpose. Instead, they force the Red to dodge, away from the Black that stands near them, head spinning because he can’t understand what’s going on, none of them can.   
Lance charges in, focusing his mind, dropping to his knee to dodge the blade swipe, laughing at the Galra’s panicked cry when Lance stepped in, even closer, raising his shield to deflect the blaster shot. But there’s something pressed against his shoulder and Keith’s teeth are forced closed as the Gar lights up with the budding electricity that had Lance convulsing deep in the confines of the _Torous_ caves. 

_“Keith help me.”_

_“You’re so stupid, don’t you realise that? Can’t you see we don’t want you anymore, that the team doesn’t want you? They sent me here to get rid of you once and for all.”_

The gar gives Lance extended reach, the surprise of his trump card stopping the half-breed in his tracks for three, two, one ticks but he uses it as a vault and is on his opponent’s blindside before Red can lift his sword or shield. Electricity pulses into his right thigh.   
The volts are higher.   
The screams are louder. 

“LANCE!”  
“LANCE STOP!”  
But Lance won’t stop. He can’t, this fight is real, he won’t ever fall to the Galra. 

The Red Paladin knocks the gar aside. He’s on his feet, on the retreat as Lance readies himself again. He’s not going to chase him. That’s not what the ocean does. It waits, it teases, and it strikes when they least expect it.   
Lance is the ocean. _And he’s not going to bow to a child._

The Galra keeps his distance, feet stepping closer to Shiro. Lance equips his blaster and shoots the floor between them. Another warning. Then he brings out his gar, the tip buzzing with electricity, Anadón at his side as they stare down the enemy. 

The Yellow is beside their leader now, a hand on him as they both watch, eyes wide with shock and something else. The gremlins remain by their computer, but it’s readings have been abandoned in favour of watching Lance and his newfound power. 

Their mouths are slack; worry clear in the lines on their faces, left helpless to watch as Lance lunges again, only for his spear to be shunted off target by the Red’s sword. Still the same sword style he’s used from the beginning.   
Lance feels pride swell in his chest. He’s the only one that’s been able to summon a different shape than their original, and with the burst of energy the pride offers, he lunges again. His opponent rolls away from him but not far enough, rising to a knee within the reach of Lance’s spear, the bunt of his elbow slammed into the Blue’s ribcage as the human stepped in. He won’t be caught surprised again, but that doesn’t matter. Lance has proven his strength. Now, he is just enjoying himself. 

Hit, dodge, swing. 

For every strike the Galra lands, Lance gets in three. His confidence urges him forward, Anadón on his side once more as he begins to shout marks to aim for.   
_{Dodge now! Step back and hit him on the back of the knees.}_

The move gets the Red Paladin on the floor, Lance’s spear, alight with electricity, aiming for his undergirded ribcage, the arcing electricity looking for purchase on flesh, to hurt to _burn._  
He misses, the half-breed throwing his word to his other hand, moving closer, already judging the way Lance will move. He dodged the bunt, and shoved his foot into Lance’s unguarded back, slick with blood. 

And the fight is over.   
Lance grunted from the pain, knees buckling from the sharpness that surges from the burn of the explosion, still not fully healed, not healed at all, simply ignored by _Eyre._ But the craving is strong, the effects wearing off quickly as everything in his body burns. He thinks its anger, searches for the power but his body won’t move right, his hands, arms, legs won’t listen. _Nothing will listen._

He’s on the floor, on his knees, breathing heavy, feeling constricted despite no helmet. His Bayard clatters to the floor, once more in its handle configuration. 

His gloves are yanked off, thrown to who knows where. Sweat covers Lance enough that he looks like he’s just stepped out the shower. He’s panting for breath, _wheezing_ even, as the strength leaves his body trembling, his fingers shaking and he’s dizzy. _Damn._   
“LANCE! Lance, are you okay?”   
Black spots cloud the boy’s vision, his breath tighter, tightening with every painful gasp at oxygen. But he’s not passed out. _He’s not going to pass out._

There’s a hand on his shoulder, black on his arms. He can see Anadón pulling at his gauntlets, watching as they’re dragged off of him and cast away, just like his gloves, his helmet.   
Pidge is in front of him suddenly, a hand pressed against his forehead. He fights them, not needing the pity, not wanting to listen to the lecture he’s going to get. _How could you have hurt Keith? We like Keith, we don’t want him hurt. But you, ha, we don’t care for you._

Lance fights the hands on him, he doesn’t need their fake pity, he’s strong, he doesn’t need them. He tries to swat the gremlin’s hands away, but another hand comes in and this one is stronger. He can’t shake it. Doesn’t have the energy to try so lets it stay.   
Hunk is talking to him. There’s a note of pride in his voice. _Is he talking about the Gar?_  
Shiro is pulling him to his feet, telling him to breath like the boy has forgotten how. 

And there’s Keith, distance between the pair. His eyes are wide, his face slack, wearing the same stupid expression that usually grates at Lance’s conscious. This time, he revels in it. “Told you to… take me… seriously…”   
Lance smiled, the notion slipping just as his conscious did. 

Everything went dark.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Hunk, it’s okay,” Shiro said calmly, watching the Yellow Paladin’s shaking hands try and keep Lance’s body from crumpling into a heap, watching the tears that stream down his cheeks as Keith moves in, helping as they lower him to the floor before he can fall.  
Pidge has already gone, shouting something about how they’re going to find Coran, to tell him to come quick, that Lance is badly hurt and he needs help.

Hunk, Keith and Shiro work together to strip Lance’s upper armour off of him, to get to the gash in his side, to help stop the blood flow that continues from the wound in his side. The wound that Keith put there. But he can’t think of that now, he has to focus; he has to help Shiro and Hunk as they put pressure on the wound, their hands slick with blood, the floor around them already slick with blood.   
“It’s not that big,” they lie, trying to encourage him that Lance is going to be okay.   
Keith is fine, he doesn’t need the comfort he tells him, but they won’t believe him because he can’t stop his hands from shaking and he’s pale. 

“We need to get him to the infirmary as soon as possible,” Shiro says, voice calm, calmer than Hunk or Keith, but they know he’s worried. He is panicking on the inside, just as much as they are. _There’s a lot of blood._  
But Shiro knows not to show his true emotions. That is all the comfort he can allow himself to give right now, the only distraction from Lance he can allow.   
He stands, Lance held between him and Keith, then over his shoulder to make it easier to hold him, ignoring the blood on his hands as he and the others head to the medical room.

They lose Hunk halfway, the boy saying something about finding the Princess and he’s gone. Shiro spares spared Hunk a look. But he couldn’t linger. Not with the Sharpshooter in his arms, too light and too cold. 

Pidge was ahead, Coran trailing after her. They stopped, turned heel, and headed for the Med Bay, already hurrying ahead to prepare the Blue Paladin a healing pod, running so it that it should be ready for when Shiro delivered him there.   
He picked up his pace. 

When they enter the infirmary, the cryo-chamber is already warming up, tears in the Green’s eyes as they see not only Keith, but Shiro and Lance wearing red too. He’s losing _a lot_ of blood. 

“Help me get him out of his armour,” Coran says, leading over to a medical cot, grabbing a pair of scissors to cut off the undergarment, knowing that would be quicker than trying to pull Lance out of his suit. The bloody armour is thrown to the side, care only given to the Blue Paladin that has begun to shake, his body convulsing at the chill that surrounds him. “What’s happening Coran?” Shiro asks, discarding his neutral expression as he holds Lance’s body to the table, Keith wrestling him on the other side, neither knowing the proper protocol to help Lance. His body is drenched in sweat, face twisted in pain. Scars litter up the insides of his arms, white against the bronze tan, more littering his collarbone.

“Turn him over in case he throws up,” Coran says, pulling the last of the garment off as Lance finally stills, silence biting his tongue as Lance’s body is revealed to them. The cut in his side has begun to clot, quicker than what should’ve been humanly possible. But that’s not what takes their focus. 

“What the…. What…. WHAT THE HELL!” Shiro yelled, staring at the scar tissue that was Lance’s back. It ran from the base of his shoulder blade, down to the base of his spine, the flesh torn but healed, an ugly scar still inflamed.   
Burnt skin, all wrinkled and warped, scar tissue now a permanent tattoo as it tore over bronze flesh, turning it dark and bloody, even now, so many days after it had been inflicted. The skin around it looked healed, although pockets of dried blood covered what Lance had been unable to reach in his attempts at cleaning it himself, without asking Coran for help.   
His skin was a mess of colour; red and blue and black and purple, bruises all over his back and his hips, the bones of his spine outlined in rings of purple.   
Amongst the colour were slivers of white where blood had been cut off, the scar tissue taking over. Pale pink patches bloomed with pus pockets, green and black underneath that had all the witnesses fearing infection. 

“This is… it’s…,” Keith choked, his own hand ghosting over the shape of red that hugged the once-tan skin. It was definitely infected with something, the red darker in places that showed clotted blood pockets beneath the surface, tendrils of black ghosting from one singular entry point.   
He can almost smell the distinct sharpness of burning flesh, his eyes scanning to the lines of the infection. His skin is thinner, much thinner than it should’ve ever been, and they can see the muscles convulsing deep with the boy’s body.   
It makes him want to throw up. He didn’t even fight it.   
“Move,” Coran ordered, shoving a bucket-wielding Pidge towards the Red Paladin, a sharp shove on their backs back to move them away from the medical cot. The Altean Doctor pulled at the scarred tissue, his gloved fingers moving over them, examining— No. There’s something on his fingers. A salve of sorts which he rubs into the wound, practically caking it on, as Keith spews and Shiro is dry heaving when blood joins the mix. 

Keith is watching between the hurls, numb to the sound of a voice next to him. It’s Pidge, they’re back again, talking to him, trying to comfort him. But nothing can help him against the dread that swarms inside him. Was Lance… _dying?_  
Had something happened, something atrocious that none of them had seen, something that had broken, not his body, but his _mind._ He could see the flickering of eyes beneath closed eyelids; see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes through the pain, still alive, but not…   
Was it _Torous?_ Was this wound something inflicted on him before Keith had found him?

Was this…. _Keith’s fault._

Keith should’ve realised. He should’ve noticed something was up, confront the boy about it back before the mission to Torous, back afterwards when he literally begged the Red Paladin to keep his trap shut about being injured. It had got worse. He had told Keith that he’d get it seen to- _Had he?_  
No. Keith had told him to, then watched as Lance slipped away without nothing more than a lie to the crew. A lie to Keith as well. 

But Keith should’ve known. He should’ve followed him, checked up on him, and forced him into the pod by himself if he had to. He shouldn’t have left him. He shouldn’t have left him. 

_He shouldn’t have left him._

“H-how,” Shiro asks no one in particular, his voice dragging Keith from the storm of thoughts, the man himself trying to figure out _when_ such an injury occurred. “It must’ve been from Torous.”  
“YOU KNEW?” Shiro demands, angry, shouting.   
Keith shouts back. “No I didn’t! You think I’d let him walk around with _this_ if I knew about it?” 

They’re both angry, both looking for explanations and someone to blame. Keith is already blaming himself. Lance is hurting more than he thought, and now when they strip him they find the scarred tissue. The abuse from the thugs on _Torous._  
“But I thought he got himself healed,” Keith said numbly, shuddering from the taste in his mouth. “He was in the healing pod, Coran you said he was in the healing pod—”   
“Thirteen Dobosh. The pod wouldn’t hold him for any longer because it couldn’t find anything else to fix.”   
“Well that’s just bullshit,” Shiro growled, staring at the scar tissue that obviously needed healing. “How the hell can it miss—?”  
“I don’t know,” Coran growled. “But what I want to know, is how this is healed.” Shiro stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “It’s not—”  
“Not completely healed. But this here,” Coran says, pointing to the pink flesh, less damaged than the rest of Lance’s back. “This has been treated.” Then adds, “But badly.”   
His voice is ice; crispy thin that has Keith holding his breath. The man seemed to grow in height, his hands moving expertly, now dangerous weapons of preciseness that could take the knife to Keith’s neck in seconds and he couldn’t fight it. Coran was a doctor. Of course he had the strength, the guts and the accuracy to do it.   
But the knife stays on Lance’s skin, slices dealt to the worst of the scar, cleaning the infection under his skin. The black tendrils fight him when he cuts their fleshy prison, thick liquid that bubbles up from under the skin, hissing with a nasty smell of burning flesh. Coran does away with them, working methodically. Keith couldn’t tear his eyes away, watching the red, blue, black skin disappear under another coating of the creamy wax. 

“Coran what’s happening?” Shiro asks, but he’s ignored. “Out,” the Alien snaps instead, and Keith’s about to put up a fight, until he hears the painful screech from the fleeing form Green Paladin. They don’t get far before the sobs break through.   
“Both of you, out,” Coran snapped again, noting neither of the men had moved to follow. 

Keith and Shiro remained.   
Coran’s patience wore thin. 

“I SAID GET OUT!”


	10. A Want To Understand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is in pain, has been for a long time. But now the Paladins known, and they’re left to worry and wonder just what is going on with Lance. But while he heals in the Cryo-chamber, they’re going to have to wait until they get their answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: ANOTHER VERY ANGSTY CHAPTER!!

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

“A second mark? Are you sure?”  
“Well it wasn’t his usual bloody gun, if that’s what you’re asking,” Pidge growled, slamming their clenched fist on the module beside them, turning their anger to the Princess who couldn’t seem to grasp the severity of the situation.   
The spar that they had just watched wasn’t a normal Lance/Keith fight, even if it had followed their usual snide argument. It was so much more… _powerful._  
The anger, more volatile, had been the Blue Paladin’s energy, not the Red who was known for his limited patience and short temper. Only Lance could bring that out of him with his motor-mouth, and he had, sort of, when he was baiting the boy into the fight. But what he said wasn’t right. Lance would never, never even _dream_ of calling Keith _‘Galra,’_ would never use that against him. And the shit he said about Shiro wasn’t right either. _It just wasn’t Lance._

“Language,” Shiro said from where he was standing, ever the diplomat, but one glare from Pidge told Shiro not to venture any further down that road. He was wise upon finding a distraction. “Yes, Princess. Lance was able to wield another weapon. It was not his blaster.” 

Allura looked between the Paladins, trying to understand something she had been lucky not to witness firsthand. Emotions warred inside her; starting with pride at Lance’s ability to bring forth a second mark, all the way to fear upon hearing that he was now in the cryo-chamber, healing because of a fight gone wrong between him and the Red Paladin.   
“But how?” she said, mainly to herself. “Coran and I have yet to go over how to bring forth other marks. The stress on the body; let alone the mind—”  
“Well, whether you told us or not, Lance has somehow figured it out,” Shiro said, raising a hand to Pidge who looked ready to step into the sparring ring themselves. 

“And he conjured a spear, you say?” Allura asked, wringing her wrists, turning to the screen drawn up beside her, displaying a feed directly from the Healing Room. The image of Lance in his Cryo-Chamber lit up the lower bottom of the screen, Coran running the final checks at the main consol in the center. But then he stopped what he was doing, turning and exiting the room, heading to the bridge to update the Paladins on their injured teammate.   
“Yes. Which was electrified,” Shiro added. He glanced over to Keith who was sat in his chair, only giving half of his attention to the others, his eyes fixed on the visual of Lance. He had refused a Cryo-pod himself, saying he “ _wasn’t getting in one till they figured out what the hell was going on with Lance.”_

“Is… is that it important? The weapon, I mean.”  
Hunk was the most fidgety out of all of them. He wanted to be in the Med Bay with Lance, having left them earlier, still not privy to the severity of Lance’s wounds. He wanted to be there for his best friend, but he also wanted to know the Altean’s approach on Lance’s second Mark. Maybe it had something to do with his sudden change in attitude. 

“A spear as his second Mark? I can’t really say without knowing Lance’s mind at the moment. All I can say it, it’s a little concerning considering we haven’t been fighting enemies hand to hand recently.” But Allura’s words caused the Black Paladin to rapidly shake his head. “Not quite. We, as a team, may have not, but Keith and Lance were fighting on _Torous,_ against the pirates. And Lance asked for help with hand to hand combat. Keith and I have caught him before, training by himself.”   
“After his mission to _Torous?”_ Coran asked, entering the bridge with a firm, brisk march. Keith raised his head then, scrambling from his chair to stand with the group, desperate to hear of the Blue Paladin’s verdict. But Coran raised a hand, telling him to hold his questions.   
Shiro was still talking, now addressing Keith. “He said, before you two started fighting – he was talking about a promise that the two of you made, saying you betrayed him.”   
“And I didn’t,” Keith growled, arms folded, defending himself as he took a step back from the hurtful accusation. He hadn’t betrayed Lance, in fact, he tried to reach out to him, but it was _Lance_ who clammed up and kept disappearing every time he went in search of the Blue Paladin, just hoping to talk to him. But he never found him.   
Or, he did, once but he was finishing his training, sparring against the robots when he and Shiro found him on the training deck. It was Keith’s choice not to grasp the opportunity to talk to Lance. He had privately acknowledged their shared promise about not letting the team know of what really happened, and thought better not to bring up the fact he wants to talk to Lance in private, not in front of Shiro who would’ve known something was up immediately.   
So he’d kept quiet and kept looking for him, but never found him.   
And now, now he was stuck in a healing pod after a fight with him. 

Keith had seen something was wrong, had felt it when he stepped up to the plate, ready to spar against him and Lance had run his mouth, working up his anger, drawing Keith into the fight even though he knew something was wrong, something was _off._  
The words were wrong. They hadn’t been Lance’s. And through all of it, he knew he heard Blue calling out, felt Red’s pain as he threw himself at his best friend, watched the sword find purchase in flesh, the blood, the pain he brought upon the boy who was already hurting, already in so much pain but somehow able to mask it. He hadn’t asked for help, he hadn’t told _anyone._  
Lance had fought through it, desperate, bringing himself the pain as he kept fighting, turned the gar on Keith who hadn’t realised what was happening, what Lance was trying to do…

“Keith, what _actually_ happened on _Torous?”_ Shiro asked, standing in front of him, the tone of his voice heavy with a warning that told him he had to speak. He had to answer the question, because he had the answers. But he didn’t, not really. He didn’t know what happened to Lance. He just knew that he wasn’t there to fight beside him, and now he had fought _against_ him. 

“I lied,” Keith says slowly, fixing his eyes on the floor and not on the way Shiro stands in front of him, all arms folded and scowl that tells Keith he’s not impressed.   
Keith’s not impressed with himself either. “I told you we were both jumped, that we searched for the supplies together because you had already warned us about other scavengers.” His words stop and he palms his temple in the silence. Hunk lays a hand on Keith’s shoulder, their eyes meeting. “You split up, didn’t you?” The boy nods.   
“He said it would be quicker. He said we would be able to find all of the stuff easier if we split up, covered more ground or something. I let him, I didn’t think about danger because we were both in armour, he had his bayard, I had mine and we were talking to each other through Comms.   
“Or, no we weren’t, because he didn’t say anything. Then there was a sandstorm and he wasn’t back at the pod before it hit. I waited for him.” 

Keith was rambling, trying to think through all that happened, only just a few days ago. “Even when the sandstorm let up, he didn’t radio in. I thought it was the storm stopping the Comms, or the towers. Interference or something. But nothing. And I couldn’t go find him just by walking, I didn’t know what direction he had gone in. But then the Comms came through. He was… talking to someone? So I scanned for him on the pod and realised that it wasn’t glitching but—”   
“Glitching?” Pidge asked, standing closer. “I couldn’t quite hear him through the Comms and the mod display kept jumping and I assumed glitch.”   
“But it wasn’t.”  
“No it was some sort of jammer. When I realised what was happening, it was already too late. They got to Lance first.” 

Shiro sighed softly, unfolding his arms. “They ambushed him alone. Not the pair of you.” Keith nodded again. “He didn’t want me to tell you. I got him out of course, but he didn’t want you guys to worry about him. He told me, said I couldn’t say anything because we had more important things to worry about. He said he couldn’t take up our time, that he was fine. And I, like a fucking idiot believed him.” Hunk gave Keith’s shoulder a comforting squeeze before he could storm off in anger. The red leaned into the boy’s touch. 

“So he was hurt.” It’s Coran who speaks, voice a mix of anger and confusion. “But I scanned him with the cryo-chamber. I made sure that I did every check, but the only thing I found was an injury on his leg and some cuts and bruises on his face and hands that he showed me. He didn’t want to wait in the pod for the thirteen dobosh, so I just gave him some _Eleiryian_ because that would heal them while he slept. Then Pidge and I checked the pods, but it took a while because we were still working on the Trigamon ship.”   
He’s angry with himself, thinking that he should’ve seen that there was something wrong and he missed it. 

“I’m sorry, I should’ve said something—” Keith says, also feeling responsible, but Coran wouldn’t let him. “Nonsense. He made you promise not to say a word and you respected his choice enough not to say anything.”   
It’s no comfort, but Keith understands that they’re not blaming him. They’re not blaming anyone. Perhaps the pirates, for hurting Lance, but that doesn’t explain why he can fight with his spear, why he was seriously fighting against Keith like the boy was planning to hurt him or the whole _un-Lance-ness_ of the spar. 

Coran still hasn’t said anything about Lance’s condition. Hunk asks, Coran dropping his head slightly. “It’s bad. Not what it could’ve been, but still, _bad._ I don’t know why parts are healed, but it could be the _Eleiryian_ I gave him. He could’ve put it on himself, but then there is still the question of how he’s been walking around with that wound. And the _Eleiryian:_ It affects the nerves, the system, making everything numb but only for short amounts of time,” the Doctor explains to the blank expression, not as well equipped to understand Altean Medicine.   
“But if he’s kept applying it, that could have side effects. With Alteans, it is addictive and brings about long sleep cycles. To Humans, I wouldn’t know how it affects your bodies, without undertaking tests first.” 

“And what of the spear?” Shiro asks. He knows Lance is hurt, but now he’s in the pod and he’s healing. There’s no better place for him right now, leaving the Paladins to determine just _how_ Lance was able to draw forth a second mark. And where he got the idea of an electrified spear.   
Something tells the soldier that Keith knows more than he’s letting on. But right now, the boy is too tangled up in a knot of self-hate that Shiro can’t bring himself to interrogate him further. Not yet at least. 

“The spear is worrying,” the Doctor said, brow furrowing. “And you say that he has been training, hand-to-hand, in secret. Have you helped him?” he asks, turning to Shiro. The man pulls back, not sure what the man implies but answers anyway. “Well, yes. He was training, he said he wanted to get better at fighting, in case he’s ever caught without his bayard. I didn’t think about it, I was just happy that he was still trying to improve.   
“But Keith and I modelled it instead of him, because it was the morning after we found him in the training hall, crying. I didn’t want him to keep pushing himself, but I didn’t want to have a go at him for training either.” Coran nods grimly. “Then it may be as I feared.”   
“Coran it’s not—”  
“We have to consider the possibility Princess. We have to consider _every_ possibility whilst Lance is unconscious and unable to explain his own actions. Until we talk to him, we cannot rule out anything ourselves, and only prepare for what has led us to here, now.”   
The Paladins, left in the dark, watched the exchange with dread in their stomachs. The Alteans weren’t usually cryptic, not purposefully so, but for some reason, secrecy was held high in this conversation as they talked quickly with one another, deliberately keeping the rest of the team out of the know.

“But a spear? There could be other reasons—”  
“And I’m not saying there are not, Princess, but I’m not refuting the idea that there is more than one possible cause to Lance’s sudden change.” Coran sighed deeply, his eyes once again finding the Blue Paladin. He regarded him with sadness, much deeper than the single Paladin caused, another sigh before he looked back to Allura. “We have to include everything. Starting from the beginning. The incident with the Cargo Ship and the Pirates. Then the mission to _Torous_ and his capture and his maltreatment at the hand of the denizens there. Then the fact that he refused treatment from—”  
“Damn it Coran just spill it already!” Keith said, his patience worn thin, eyes wide, searching for an answer in the man’s cryptic wording. He had an unsettling look about him, more than just his badly mussed hair, the dried blood on his armour where he still hadn’t changed. Shiro still bore Lance’s blood upon him, moving to calm the boy as Hunk pulled him away from Coran with a firm grasp. “Keith calm down.”   
“No! I want to know what’s wrong with Lance. He’s been off for ages, we all suspected something but did nothing and now look where he is,” the boy growls, his voice getting louder with anger. “And now those two,” he says, pointing to Coran and Allura, his glared hardening, “seem to know something but they’re not telling us.” 

The silence angers him, speaking before he has a chance to calm himself. “What does it mean that Lance is able to wield a spear? Why can he wield a second weapon in the first place, something completely different to his blaster? Do you know why Lance is suddenly acting different, and why the hell is it so dangerous you can’t even tell us?”  
Allura and Coran looked to one another, then back to the paladins. They were all looking to the Alteans, waiting for answers, watching the aliens that remained hesitant to speak. “Please Allura. We need to know so we can help,” Shiro said, stepping forward. He took her hand reassuringly, smiled softly whilst nodding. “We’re already fighting a war Allura. It’s not like we can’t handle this.”   
“Yes, I guess you’re right,” she conceded. 

“We don’t know why Lance is acting out or—”   
_“He’s not a kid,”_ Keith grumbled under his breath, but he was getting the answers he wanted, so quickly quietened. His remark however, caused Allura to rethink her words. “We don’t know why Lance’s attitude has changed, nor why. Unlocking the second mark isn’t a difficult task, and you’re all near the stage where you can start to think about channelling your own bayard into different marks. 

“I am surprised Lance was the first, but its unsettling that he has done so alone, without proper guidance or understanding, meaning he has unlocked it through sheer will which could’ve resulted on putting _a lot_ of strain on his body and his mind.”   
She stopped, collecting her thoughts before continuing. “Lance’s recent behaviour maybe due to the stress, mentally too, though as we don’t know exactly _when_ he began training to unlock the Mark, we cannot say for sure.” She looked to Coran, a subtle gesture asking for him to take over. “Of course, Princess. The Spear Mark is not a hard blade to yield, and is acquirable to all Paladins and their bayard. However, it is in the terms that he used it, and the fact that he used it on Keith is what has us so concerned.” 

The team’s vagueness asked for more detail. The man continued.   
“The spear, or _Gar,_ in this analogy, is a highly effective weapon, especially against a sword,” he added, glancing to Keith. He seemed unable to keep his eyes off him, this gaze falling between the Paladins, but always falling back to the Red.   
“It gives the wielder reach and, reach is, almost without exception, the single best advantage a fighter can have against his opponent. And that is what Lance wanted, I’m assuming. He wanted reach. He wanted _distance,”_ he said, making sure that he emphasised the last word. 

“Distance?” Pidge looked to the others. “Sure in a fight, the further away from a Galra sword the better, but then wouldn’t Lance’s blaster be more effective—”  
“I don’t think you quite understand Pidge,” Coran said softly, cutting off her words quickly. “It wasn’t just that Lance wanted a tactical advantage in the spar. The point I’m trying to make is that fact that Lance used his gar against Keith, and used his electricity to hurt him.” Pidge shrugged, still not understanding what the Doctor was trying to explain. “So what? Lance and Keith fight and spar all the time, and they’ve hurt each other plenty of times. Heck, the first time I got my bayard I shocked Lance—”  
Coran’s smile slowed her sentence. It was a sad smile, like the ones you give a stranger when you bear ill news. This was no different. 

“This is an assumption, and nothing more,” he said, looking to each and every Paladin, and to the Princess too. He hesitated with the words, hoping he was wrong. He didn’t want to say the words out loud, didn’t want his words to be the spark that started turning the cog that would break Voltron apart.   
The future was looking dim, and with difficulty he spoke. “What I speculate… what I’m trying to say is, Lance knew what he was doing when he turned his gar on Keith. Although he’s better with his gun, more practiced, more skilled with his blaster, he still used his gar. Spears and long weapons are designed for distance and…”

The man shook his head. “What I mean is Lance turned on Keith. He wanted distance from _Keith._ And maybe, the Paladins as a whole.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The farewell to the Trigamons was less than a farewell and more of a party. They were rambunctious little creatures with a certain love for being loud and lively, always looking for a moment to participate in festivities.  
Even after the night long rave during the middle of the stay, they weren’t deterred that two days later they would party with the Paladins again, dancing around in circles, doing weird and wonderful dances as they sang their own version of whatever Pidge pulled up on their computer for the Trigamon to dance along to.

The entire affair passed in a blur of speeches, toasts and weird Alien formalities that Pidge expertly ducked out of. Then, the Paladins and themselves piloted their Lions for a farewell send off. In truth, they were all there, just in case the new engine blew up, but Allura thought that it was best not to tell the Trigamon that.   
Needless to say, Team Punk’s handiwork paid off, and the Alien’s ship safely took them away from the Outer Asteroid Belt with a blast from their engines. 

After being docked on the same asteroid for so long, everyone else was eager to depart, heading nowhere in particular, scanners on open channels for distress beacons concerning pirates and Galra alike. 

The dinner that followed was eerily quiet. After the ever-present noise of the Trigamon, dining with only the Paladins and the Altean Ancients was an odd and quiet prospect. Although, if anyone else thought so, they didn’t say anything.   
“-and they taught me how to make Sal-Gobi, which is a lot like Peppered Gumbo,” Hunk was saying, waving his spoon around excitedly. Coran was less than happy at the mention of a “ _horned and very dangerous creature,”_ derived from his home planet. Their conversation changed to human’s safety on Earth, especially since they had wild Gumbo’s charging around. 

At that point Pidge switched off. Allura, who had been trying to rope them into conversation, had turned to conversing with Shiro and Keith, who were concerned about the lack of Pirate activity in the recent days, talking about the plan for training now that they didn’t have to entertain guests. Only things hadn’t gone to plan… 

“And we’re back here again.” 

Pidge stared at the human popsicle, suspended in sleep stasis, a peaceful expression upon his pale features. Lance looked normal in his sleep.   
But he wasn’t sleeping. He was in a state of suspended animation, his mind sealed while the healing pod scanned and rescanned his entire body, the Altean technology stitching his muscles back together, speeding the growth of new cells to cover and eradicate the burns and damage that had been inflicted upon him, and inflicted upon himself as he ignored his injuries and kept on as if nothing was wrong.   
He was in the healing pod because he had almost worn his body and his mind into the ground. 

Pidge frowned to themselves; dropping their eyes back to the laptop that sat upon crossed legs, frowning at the accumulated readings they dragged from every corner of the castle’s wirings. They should’ve realised something was wrong sooner, should’ve checked the time logs on the training deck, installed the electrocardimeter tests sooner, checked up on the Blue Paladin himself…  
But Pidge hadn’t and now they’re left with nothing else to do but mutter curses to themselves, staring at the horrible incline of 127bpm on Lance’s recorded chart. It’s the information they gathered from the spar, before it all went wrong.   
Keith’s had spiked to 83 at one point, and Pidge noted the time frame linking it to the time space when Lance had first revealed his gar. His own heart rate had continued to rapidly incline until exhaustion took him, Keith’s kick sending him out the ring and he had no more energy left.   
Staring at the numbers on the med-pod, Pidge let a growl rip through their lips at the measly 36bpm. Too low for a resting pulse. Too slow for Lance to be up and walking about.   
_That’s because he’s in a Cryo-Chamber you burnt-out memory core processor._

“You’re an idiot you know that,” Pidge growled to the unresponsive Popsicle before her. There was anger in their voice. Brittle, lowly restrained, like the voice that they used whenever Matt or Dad became part of the conversation, or anything they found remotely distressing. 

This was a time when Pidge was allowed to be angry. They were allowed to shout and scream and rage at the idiocy of the Blue Paladin and where he was now.   
But despite all of this, the Green’s words came out soft, staring up at their teammate, offering whatever comfort they could with the gentle press of their palm against the shield of the healing pod, looking up past the numbers to Lance’s face. “You’re an idiot, you know that? A huge, colossal idiot.”

They imagined him winking at her, all of this just another one of his stupid games, offering a quick remark to settle their nerves; _“I’m absolutely fine Pidge, I’m just catching up on my beauty sleep. But you need to get some sleep of your own.”_  
Their imagination calmed them more than their own efforts. It felt like Lance had leant down and wrapped a blanket over their shoulders, rambling nonsense about too much computer, not enough sleep and _“If you drink anymore coffee, you’re going to start bleeding it. C’mon Pidge it’s called variety. Get it? Va-ri-e-tea!”_

Lance was like a brother to Pidge. Scratch that, he _was_ their damn brother, whether they had accepted it or not. But not just Lance. They were all one big space family, and even thought Matt was blood, Voltron was the family Pidge had found and forged in space, them all being just as precious.  
They may gripe and groan about humans being impossible and robots easy and how they all annoyed the Green Paladin with their meddling every time they barged their way into the Green Hangar with their concern and… And Lance.

_Oh Lance._

How many times had Pidge told him to leave them alone, how many times had they cursed his name, rolled their eyes at his lame-ass jokes, at the way he’d ruffle their hair or steal Matt’s glasses away from them, if only to pull Pidge’s attention away from their laptop, if for a moment.   
The times that he would stumble upon them in the dead hours that no one could determine were morning or night. He’d pull the Green into his arms; taking them away from the Green Lion’s hangar and makeshift workshop to a more comfortable bed, or at least the sofa in the lounge where he’d have blankets and pillows and something reminiscent of tea. He’d ramble sometimes as he sat beside them, but stuck in their own half-sleep-like state, Pidge had never been able to pull discernible words from the noise. His voice was a hum in the background, a noise that held back the silence.   
_Was that all he was to Pidge? Background noise?_

No. He was the one that could make them laugh when they didn’t want to. Hell, when they had an _“accident”_ revolving their first bleed and the embarrassment of making a mess of themselves because… because…   
It was Lance who had been the first to find them, all scrunched up and in pain. He just hugged them slowly, took the youngest to his room and let them chill in his bath whilst he cleaned up. _“I’ve got a big family at home Pidge. This isn’t the first time this has happened. No, no stop apologising, it’s fine. It’s not your choice and I’m going to ignore you if you keep saying sorry.”_  
He made them both mugs of Space-Hot Chocolate and warmed up blankets so that when the cramping kicked in, they weren’t in too much pain, pulling them into his bed beside him just so the two of them could cuddle, Lance filling the silence with incessant rambling. _“Man, you should’ve seen Maya when she first started. She used to shout and scream in pain we had to take her to the hospital. Then Ariesa would have fainting fits all over the place because she had Vitamin K deficiency. God, the first time that happened I was so worried. But you’re good; you don’t have anything like that.  
But, hey I bet Coran’s got a medical magic mystery cure for this. Or, maybe you’d rather ask Allura. Or I can I don’t mind. Or maybe they’re different. Because, yeah they are space elves, but we don’t really know too much about Altean anatomy to determine if they’re similar to humans like that.” _  
He rubbed Pidge’s back when they started throwing up and let them borrow his hair ties, sat with them holding the glass of water and talked nonsense to distract them from the pain in their throat and the smell of bile filling up his toilet bowl. _“It’ll pass it always does. I bet five minutes in the healing pod will completely reboot your system and, tah-dah! No more cramps.”_

Lance always cared about Pidge.   
He was the one to go and find them after a nasty Galra raid, or tasking rescue mission, dragging them away from their workshop for a spa day. _“No more computer. You haven’t left this room for three days Pidge. In the shower, now! Go before I throw this bucket at you. And don’t test me because you know I will!”_ He gave Pidge facials and painted their toenails and laughed when they painted his. They weren’t as neat but Pidge tried hard and Lance thanked them for it.

It was Lance that found Pidge’s tickle spot and uses it against them at the most random moments. _“Run Pidge, I’m gonna get’cha! And don’t bother hiding in the vents or I’ll send the mice in after you!”_

It’s Lance who offered to train beside them when they weren’t improving as fast as quickly as the others, their duties always torn between improving the castle systems, keeping an eye on the Galra and searching for their missing family.   
_“Hey don’t sweat it. Keith trains constantly because he has nothing better to do and Shiro’s been in Space for a year, fighting for his life. Hunk’s not that far ahead either, but that’s more because the teddy bear wants to spend more time in the kitchen trying out new recipes for cookies.  
“Me? You know me Pidge. I’m a master already. No one can keep up with me. Now come on, again. And if you get a hit in fewer than ten ticks, I’ll come help you out.” _  
Pidge didn’t realise Lance was speaking the truth. Or maybe at the time he wasn’t, they thought, staring at the recent training deck logs. He had been training alone, at night, through the day when they all were busy helping the Trigamons. Lance on the other hand, was practically constantly training, fighting by himself, rising in the ranks quicker than Pidge thought possible. 

They used to spar together, afterwards hitting the lounge for chill time, or they’d drag Lance back to help them with projects for a few hours, although they’d usually end up throwing him out when he got crazy ideas in his head, like the one time he was determined to create a hover board. _“Like from Back to the Future! What do you mean you’ve never seen it? It’s a classic!”_

Lance was the asshole that kept following Pidge around with outdated memes, and had Team Punk build their own versions of phones, mainly because the project was fun, but also to shut Lance up. _“Oh come on guys you’re both on genius level right? I need something to store my awesome-ass selfies on!”_

Lance was the one that sang ‘Olden Goldie’s’ in the hallways, and gets the songs stuck in Pidge’s head for _weeks_ on end. _“Whitney Houston is a classic and no I will not shut up. Don’t make me start singing Nursery Rhymes Pidge because I will do it.”_ Pidge couldn’t rid themselves of “Wheels On The Bus” for fourteen hours straight. 

Lance is the one that rambles on and on whilst Pidge is trying to focus on work. He’s the one that isn’t totally offended that they’re not giving him their whole attention as he babbles on and one. _“I mean, it’s half a jacket! It only covers his arms! And there are no pockets! What’s the point of a jacket that doesn’t reach your hips, nor have pockets so you can fill it with sweets and stuff for a random snack.  
“No I will not stop being dramatic, he has no pockets! It’s a fashion calamity. And don’t get me started on his Mullet.” _

Lance was the one to find Pidge crying about Matt. Some days, when they just couldn’t keep it in, or something, _something_ would call out to them and they’d grasp it in both hands, desperately holding on, thinking it would lead to their brother or father, taking them closer and closer to their family… only to have it snatched from their hands so cruelly. Fate was a bitch and Pidge had screamed up a storm a thousand times over because of it.   
It was Lance who held them.   
Then, after the drama, they’d curl up in his bed and share stories from Earth, or they’d watch an old Disney movie from the collection that Pidge had managed to find hidden in the back of the Human store in the Space Mall.   
It was Lance who asked Hunk if they could make popcorn for the next movie night when Pidge had expressed the fondness over the snack, followed by the complaining of having to brush your teeth for three hours straight afterwards to get the kernels and shells out.   
_“My brother and I used to sneak in entire Chinese takeaways, just because we could. And the best part was we never got caught.”_

Lance was the dick that would put the Green’s laptop on the high shelf when they refused to come for dinner too many times because _“I’m busy lance, just throw it on a plate and I’ll eat it later.”  
“Nope. Dinner is family time, so off your ass, you’re coming too.” _

Lance is the one that makes the puns, and it’s starting to rub off on them all. _“I mean, what’s the worst thing about throwing a party in space? You have to… planet!  
“Oh come on Pidge that was a good one. Pidge? Pidge! I know you can hear me so get back— Alright I’m sorry I’ll stop— Pidge come back!” _

Lance is the one that promised Pidge they would nick another Galra robot for Rover 2.0. _“No, no Pidge you’re not thinking big enough. We need an entire army of them. The Galra won’t even know what hit them!”_

Lance is the one who knitted them all gifts. Pidge got a pair of fingerless gloves after they kept complaining about the cold. _“Fingerless so you can still type on your computer. If you like them so much I can make you some socks too. Then we can pretend we’re ice skating and race down the corridors. It’ll be fun, trust me.”_

Pidge did trust Lance. They trusted him more than they expressed. And look where they are now. In the med bay, Lance injured, hurt, and Pidge sat there, unable to fix the whole mess with a few tap of the computer keys. 

“And what’s with this whole distance thing?” Pidge growled, glancing to the Red Paladin, equally still and quiet in his cryo-chamber, the sleep stasis allowing him to be free of the pain of watching Lance, while he got his own beauty sleep. Shiro insisted on it, after the initial discussion that something was up with Lance.   
_Because it wasn’t like it was fucking obvious or anything!_

“Stupid, idiots, dumbasses,” Pidge grumbled out loud, soft eyes hardening as their gaze switched between the two idiots that couldn’t stop butting heads.   
Insulting them did nothing, not even to quell Pidge’s growing anger, so they turned their back on both of them, back to their computer screen, the glowing light illuminating their too-large glasses.   
An overactive heartbeat wasn’t the only thing Pidge had found when they had been running their tests. Even without hacking the castleship’s mainframe, Pidge has been able to assess abnormal brain activity; random spikes of energy surging through Lance’s mind without palpable cause. They couldn’t get any readings now – Lance’s current brain inactivity was due to the sleep stasis coma, and there were more pressing questions to be asked when he woke.   
That left Pidge with the task of finding whatever they could while they had the mundane task of waiting. It wouldn’t be for nought; they _would_ find the cause and they’d be able to help fix it when Lance woke. 

Hacking into the Castle had been too easy, not that Pidge was looking for a challenge, and called up the records for the Training Hall. They had wanted to see when Lance had used it, knowing he had, and more so than the others knew about. Shiro and Keith announced they found Lance sparring the morning following the time they found him crying, and they’d all walked in on him the late morning after the Trigamon’s departure.   
No one had a clear idea of how long he’d been there, more focused to his bristly attitude and blatant lack of respect for Shiro and Keith which was… _unheard_ of, when it came to Lance’s usual behaviour.

Pidge was horrified to find the total of twenty eight vargas that Lance had spent training since his return from _Torous._ That was almost two whole Quintant that Lance pushed his body without leaving the deck, only forced out for handful of vargas after the team found him, and a handful more when Shiro and Keith had entered to begin their own training.   
And not just that, but Pidge was also able to access the records used for analysis. The group’s standings were on such varying degrees of skill that, at first look, Pidge thought there had to be a calculative error. It just couldn’t be right. 

They themselves sat at a happy _fifteen_ for their basic training, only really progressing when Shiro clocked in mandatory team training or they got stressed enough they had to try and work their stress out on the castle bot like any sane Paladin would.   
Hunk was higher than Pidge, only just, with his record of reaching level sixteen. Shiro and Keith took the higher spectrum of the scale with _twenty nine_ and _thirty two._  
But Lance? 

Lance’s level blinked at fucking _seventy eight,_ and that didn’t include the eleven extra levels he had completed with specialised training programmes, including hand to hand, sniper training, anti-grav and some programmed called _“Colossus.”_

The Gremlin ground their teeth angrily, shutting their laptop and dragging themselves off the floor, rubbing their butt where it had gone numb from the cold floor and lack of padding. They left the room, deciding to take her findings to Coran and Shiro, hoping it would be of some use, and at least then the Alteans might be able to find out just how Lance was able to produce a gar.   
It might not have been anything, but it was something. And that was the main thing. 

The med-bay door closed behind them, their hurrying footsteps masking the sound of hushed voices. Pidge left the room without a backwards glance, oblivious to the presence of three cloaked figures that dropped down from the ceiling, watching as the Green Paladin at the far end of the corridor, disappearing out of sight.

“Is it all clear?” the Blue asked the Silver who watched the door, deeming them free to act without the knowledge of Voltron there to stop them. “Quickly. We don’t know how much time we have until they come back to him.” 

The Green stood before the chamber that held the sleeping human, his eyes closed, just as oblivious to the danger as the other Paladins. 

“Let’s begin.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Shiro wasn’t sure where his feet led him, but he wasn’t surprised when he found himself in the training room, staring at the horrible sight of the blood splatters that lay on the floor, like a gruesome horrific Easter egg trail.  
Shiro already knew what lay at the end of it, but that didn’t mean he didn’t need to see it anymore, taking the task of clean up upon himself, letting his body work while his mind switched off, trying not to think that this was Lance’s blood he was clearing up, trying not to think that he’s stood in the room in which he just watched the boy break down into a savagery that reminded him of a corner animal. He’d seen plenty of his own fair shares of feral aliens, driven mad by their time in the gladiator rings back when Shiro was a prisoner and fought for the entertainment of the Galra.  
Lance displayed the same attitude, the same restrained fear he had learnt to hide. It was kill or be killed, and in the moment that Lance fought Keith, he truly fought for his life. But, he didn’t kill Keith either. There was more going on in his mind than he was letting on.

Shiro stepped back, away from the fresh clean floor, throwing the bloodied cloths to a chore bot that would take it to the ships engines to be incinerated. His mind caught on his last train of thought, wondering just when the boy ever talked about his own problems. 

The two of them weren’t that close, although there had been times when they did open up to one another. Lance was always there; an ear for Shiro who had found him one night, pacing the corridor halls. _“Hey Shiro, hope I didn’t wake you. I just can’t seem to sleep. You too? Hey, want to make smores for a midnight snack?”_  
And after that the two of them would meet each other in the kitchen, just talking to one another about anything and everything. Although, as Shiro thought about it, their conversations had never delved into anything too personal. Just idle chatter about the day, about the day that would follow or silly jokes that Lance used to repeat as if they would never get old. 

It was Lance who had finally brought the why up though. After months of midnight meetings with turkey and berry sandwiches, or ice cream that Lance had procured from Kaltenecker, Lance had dropped the bomb with simple words. No beating around the bush, no decorated twisty question that Shiro could weasel his way out of.   
_“You’re having nightmares about the Galra, aren’t you.”_  
When Shiro had tried to brush him off and Lance caught him on the wrist, raising his voice, saying Shiro can’t run forever. Well, it had inadvertently earned him a punch to the gut and a thousand apologies from Space Dad who hated that even he sometimes felt like a trapped animal. Running was instinct, and when he couldn’t run, he acted badly.   
But Lance had just picked himself up, laughed it off and told Shiro nightmares were perfectly normal, especially for any soldier at war.   
_“And honestly, you’re going to have to hit harder than that if we have any hopes of defeating the Galra.”_  
Cocky and playful, who never let anything get to him, even when Shiro would cross the line; his exhaustion making him slip up and the lectures would drag and drag. 

Shiro stormed from the training deck, anger his companion as he began to pace, like he used to do all those restless nights. It wasn’t for Lance, no, it was anger to his own incompetence at that realisation that it was all Lance talking and asking and bonding and Shiro had been the one to keep up his walls and demand more than what was needed from the Blue Soldier. 

It was Lance who would catch Shiro off guard. Sometimes with questions about his time in the Garrison, or asking for hints on sparring when the others couldn’t hear, as if Lance didn’t want to admit he _didn’t_ have all the answers. Not like Shiro did either, but Lance looked up to him as leader, and he’d play that role if Lance asked it of him.   
And he acted on it. Advice given to him, and given to the others, Lance would take note and try it himself, sometimes hidden away, or on the fly during missions. 

He was unpredictable.   
And still, _mature._

And had Shiro praised him for it? Yes.   
Had he done so outwardly? No.   
He had thought it, many a time, offering small praises, although never singling Lance’s prowess out as though not to shame the others. They all needed support, all needed encouragement, but every time Shiro addressed Lance, he couldn’t quite convey what he needed to, not like he could with Hunk and Pidge and Keith.   
The two of them shared a more profound bond he knew that, knew that Keith could accept the harsh guide, the lack-of-mothering approach Shiro presented, acting as he had in the Garrison. He treated them like rookies, treated _Lance_ like he was a kid.   
And yeah, he was, when he’d sing Mariah Carey Christmas songs at random intervals and start food-goo fights and declare sleepovers and…   
He never really knew Lance. Not really. 

Keith had introduced him; they’d talked about the fellow pilot from the Garrison. He’d listened to his quirky jokes and his chill attitude, listen to the constant bickering with Keith that had grated at his nerves until he realised, it wasn’t childish and _“just because.”_  
Lance understood Keith better than Shiro did, especially after the years’ absence. Lance knew Keith needed to vent, and if he was there, he could be the reason for the boy to work his stress out. 

It wasn’t just Keith that Lance looked out for. He realised he was mothered himself, with the late night talks and the chance to be an ear if Shiro needed it. Not that he did, he didn’t want to be seen as incapable. But it was enough for him that Lance could be there, if Shiro needed him.   
He was there for Hunk too, always the first to volunteer to be taste tester, always there to offer praise and support for his culinary skills, Hunk’s personal little mascot in the kitchen and in the training room too.

Lance was there for Pidge, to help take their mind off of searching for Matt and Sam Holt, always ready to be a guinea pig for experiments and tests. He kept them childish, kept their innocence in the face of the galactic war.   
There wasn’t much he could do for Coran or Allura, but when either asked him for help, or advice, or simply wanted to talk, he was always there, willing and waiting. 

The perfect teammate, always there for everyone else.   
But no one was there for him. He never asked for help, never said he was struggling, never let himself show weakness.   
But Lance wasn’t weak. He had a second mark, he was competent with his blaster, with the gar and in hand to hand, even though Shiro hadn’t seen him train in such ways during allocated training times or team bonding exercises. 

“Shiro.”   
The man was pulled from his thoughts by a voice behind him in the corridor. He turned, catching sight of Pidge hurrying his way with their arms wrapped around their laptop. “I’ve got something, I think,” they said quickly, glancing down to their hands, “and there’s more that I want to look at. Is Coran still in the bridge. I need him to help me, but I think we should all be there, just in case.”   
Shiro gave an affirmative nod, waiting until Pidge was beside him before the fell in step with one another, heading away from the training hall and the med bay, where three unknowns stood in front of Lance’s cryogenic sleep chamber. 

“Let’s begin.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Hunk stood in the middle of the kitchen, utterly lost and utterly alone.  
This room had become his solace many times, used when homesickness got a little too much, when he just needed a place to head to chill out and _not_ think while he baked and cooked and created wonderful culinary arts for the team when the mission is too much, when the days are too long and the endless dark of space is a night that just won’t surrender to dawn. A new day, a new mission, a new light to lead them into tomorrow when all is well and all is perfect.

Hunk slumps at the table, hating that feeling of cold on his shoulders. The kitchen was his sanctuary, but he’s never felt so out of place before.   
The walls stretched far from him, the ceiling towering high above, making him feel only five centimetres tall. The counter top swooned and Hunk grabbed it with two hands, pulling himself to the sink before throwing up again, again, and _again._ He gasped for a moment, but couldn’t keep it in and threw up whatever had been in his stomach for last night’s meal.   
A niggling sensation in the back of his head told him it was okay; there was no one here to see him so weak. It was true. 

Pidge was in the Training Hall, going through the numbers, finding comfort in the tapping of keys and the thousand digital lights on their display module.   
Shiro was accompanying Keith to make sure he got in a Cryo-Pod whilst Allura and Coran debated the true meaning of Lance forging ahead before them…. _Lance._

Hunk felt his stomach squeeze again, but now empty, he was free from the vomiting. He let his legs turn to jelly and sank to the floor, back against the counter to help steady him before he just slumped into a heap, never to rise again. 

Lance. 

_Lance, lance, lance._

_“Shiro, what the hell was that?”_ Hunk asked, turning to the team leader as he stood in the corridor, returning from the med-bay. He had heard Coran chase them out, the big guy grateful he didn’t have to go in just yet because he knew he wasn’t going to be able to cope if he saw Lance all blood-covered and still unconscious.   
But Hunk wanted answers and instead of running away, had retrieved Allura and headed straight for the infirmary, march strong despite he was falling apart on the inside.   
But he wanted answers. If anyone was going to have them, Shiro would. 

But Shiro replied with a blank face and a stare on the door from which he had just exited. _“Shiro, what is going on?”_ Allura asked, but the shock settling in left her ignored, Keith just mumbling, _“that was… that wasn’t his gun.”_ He was still in pain, the aftermath of the fight slowly effecting as he stood there, staring at the floor like it was the perfect place to collapse.   
But he hadn’t and they had convened on the bridge, decided Lance had changed, that something was the trigger and they need only wait to ask to start to fix all their problems. 

Hunk scoffed where he sat, listening to Shiro’s naïve idea that talking would fix Lance. But it wasn’t Lance who needed fixing. Something had happened to him, making him _not-him_ as he fought against Keith, disrespecting him. He’d never treat him like that, even if he confessed and Keith told him to choke on dirt. Sure, the Cuban could pretend he didn’t like Keith anymore than Keith “liked” him, but Hunk knew Lance better than himself. Or, he thought he had. 

Whoever that was in the training hall, it wasn’t Lance. He’d never treat Keith like that, never be so disrespectful to Shiro, never fight Keith so seriously. 

All hidden feelings aside, it was obvious the Red and Blue Paladins weren’t always the best of friends, but the look in Lance’s eye…  
If Hunk didn’t know Lance better, he was sure the Paladin was trying to kill him… 

Then, did Hunk _really_ know Lance?

Of course he did. They were best friends. Long before Space, long before the Garrison. 

No. They met _at_ the Garrison.   
Time seemed to roll together into one giant bundle. Hunk could almost swear he had spent evenings with the boy under the blankets with books and torches, giggling to themselves when parents came poking their heads and telling them to go to sleep already.   
But that childhood didn’t exist. 

The two of them had met at the Garrison. First day, first class, where Hunk took the corner seat at the back, away from prying eyes and the glare of teachers that wanted the perfect answer. And fool for you if you answered wrong. But then, fool for you if you always answered right because no one lies a _geek, a know-it-all, a nerd._  
But that was Hunk to the core; nerdy and geeky, in love with computers and science and Steven Universe. He was the one that got picked on by the more socially adept students, who sailed through, not on smarts, but their charisma and allure. 

Lance was one of them. Sauntered into class with the fanfare of girls’ laughter and heckles from the lads. He had his pick of the crowd, his pick of the crop.   
His eyes had settled on Hunk, a smile on his lips. Hunk had sunk lower into his chair and wished he hadn’t made eye contact. He had already been _“that friend.”_  
April had been her name. She wasn’t the prettiest girl in school, but she was bubbly and her hair hung in curls that bounced when she walked. Honey golden, something or other.   
She was always there when Hunk found his fingers thumbing through social media. Everything he said had taken her attention. He had been witty, funny, charming, and she had been there to remind him.   
She boosted his confidence and he had found a friend in her. Not the prettiest, neither the smartest, but she was good company on study evenings. She’d buy them both ice cream and pizza and Hunk would check her homework. He re-did her science assignments and helped bring her Maths grade to above average. On breaks they would hit the movies, the aquarium or go diving in old thrift stores. 

Once exams finished, April picked up her old friends and didn’t give Hunk a second glance.   
The ticket stubs stayed buried in his wallet and her favourite DVD stayed wrapped up in cellophane on top of his television. 

September came and so did their new school. Same school, different classes. 

Along came Lance. 

Lance had been the one to approach Hunk first, ever the charismatic bastard that Hunk pegged him as when he first laid eyes on him.   
And Hunk, with nowhere to hide, cornered at the back of class had watched the kid stroll up to him, watch him slide into the chair on his right, lean over and _“Hey dude mind if I sit here? The name's Lance by the way, like Lancelot the Knight, but I’m way cooler.”_  
Of course Hunk had said yes. It wasn’t like he could say no.  
So Lance sat and small talk was made before, after and during lessons. Hunk had his guard up for the inevitable, but the questions never came.   
Well, they did but they weren’t what Hunk expected. 

_“Hey, wanna grab ice cream?”_

_“Do you think I can make Iverson snap if I just constantly moo throughout the class?”_

_“Who would win a thumb wrestle, Superman or Goku?”_

_“Dude my pens dead, can I borrow one. I swear I’ll give it back.”_

_“What’s your favourite Disney movie?”_

_“Want to come over to my room for binge TV?”_

_“Did I do something to annoy Pidge? He doesn’t talk to me much and even when he does, the little Gremlin is ready to bite my head off.”_

_“Hey Hunk, does my butt look big in these trousers?”_

Then Hunk’s walls were down and they were swapping lunch and theories on how far they could push Iverson before he snapped. They talked about their homes and families, and homework that was due, but they’d forgotten to do it after spending all night playing video games on the console Lance had snuck from a seniors room. They got two weeks detention for that, but the gaming sessions had been well worth it. 

It was Lance who had found out Hunk cooked and claimed himself Hunk’s official food taster. _“Oh god man, these are to die for. Can I have another? Really? Thanks dude!”_  
Then came the night trips to the kitchen where Lance would act like it was a restaurant and make orders off of pretend menus whilst Hunk whipped up a storm from soups to casseroles and everything in between. They’d study and eat, tidy away and creep back to their dorms before night patrol caught them.   
Except Thursdays. Thursdays was when Manny was on patrol, and he’d meet them in the guard lounge for reruns of sit-coms and black and white Charlie Chaplin movies. 

They were best friends. _Inseparable._  
It was Lance who stood up for Hunk when the bullies surrounded him in the cafeteria. When they thought they were being big-shots because they called Hunk out on his ‘girly’ interests of cooking decent grub and getting high scores on quizzes.   
It was Lance who so casually sauntered in like the King of England, stepping between what’s-his-face and Hunk, on the floor from where they shoved him.   
Lance was the one who pulled him up, flashing the bird to their opponents before dropping to one knee and asking very loudly, with that damn cocky smile, if Hunk would be his wife and cook him delicious food every day. _“You’ll make me the happiest Man on Earth. Say yes Hunk,”_ before he winked, grinned the biggest smile Hunk had ever seen and started singing some romantic Spanish song, waltzing the pair around the canteen to thunderous applaud.   
They were _‘married’_ for a week before Lance went back to his skirt-chasing ways.   
Although no one ever bothered Hunk again.

It had been Lance, _his best friend,_ who had learnt about his fear of heights first and even tried helping him with it; _“Hunk buddy, it’s just a ladder. There’s railing around the roof so we’re fine,”_ and then, it was Lance who took the blame when they got caught. He hated Iverson, hated the scolding even more than Mr Eye Patch, but Lance was always the first to throw his neck on the line, even if they were close to being caught out. He’d jump into the searchlight, waving at Hunk to sneak back to the dorms so he wouldn’t have to get in trouble. 

Getting blasted into space hadn’t changed their relationship.   
Lance was the one who listened to Hunk when he was homesick. When he just wanted to go home and forget this War business and Aliens and Space and everything. _“But Hunk, think about it. We’re the most famous Humans in the known Universe. We should have a movie made about us. Better yet, an entire TV series with hundreds of episodes and a live action film. Damn, I need to start practising how to sign my autograph.”_

He was the one who kept Hunk grounded, who kept reminding him of things from home. _“Do you know what I miss the most about Earth? Chewing gum. I am craving chewing gum.”_ He knew it would set off a debate between them. It took Hunk a month, a month to find a plant that resembles a mint plant, except the leaf was blue with white spots and Lance was sure it was poisonous when Hunk picked it up to try it. _“If my skin goes white and blue spots appear on my skin, I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth.”_  
Ever the drama queen, but he ate it anyway. The only thing that went blue was his tongue. 

Lance was the prankster king. With his harmless jokes that escalated into the ultimate prank war. And then, to make it up to Hunk, they had a Spa Day with movies and junk food, pillow forts and loud music. They’d sit and jump from topic to topic, keeping their minds occupied before memories came back and they felt the need to hug it out.   
Somehow, they always seemed to come back to the same conversation, where Lance constantly reminded Hunk that he was smart, and a total genius. _“You made a thingy-ma-bob that found an element that didn’t technically exist on Earth until we found Blue. Do you know how incredibly cool that is?  
“Like, a lot!” _

It was Lance, _his best friend,_ who wouldn’t stop reciting old movies and crappy pick up lines. _“Simba, everything the light touches is ours.”_ He had tried re-enacting the opening to the movie once, replacing the Lion Cub with a _smol_ Pidge, and had almost got his eyes clawed out because of it.   
But he was smiling and Pidge laughed too so all was well in the end. 

It was Lance who had the unhealthy obsession with Garlic Knots, who was constantly asking for Hunk to make them, who insisted they were god’s gift to men on Earth. _“Well, we’re not on Earth, but they still are in the top ten, just above cat beans.”_ The list had changed daily, but there were at least three of Hunk’s home cooked meals on it, without fail. 

And of course it was Lance who, without fail, got him the best pair of Christmas socks every year, knitting them himself so that they would fit perfectly.   
_“And look, I managed to knit an H so that I know if you steal mine again. And don’t say you didn’t, they were stretched to twice the size of my dainty feet. And yes they’re dainty, leave my feet alone Hunk.”_

Lance was the type of friend that would never leave him. Six years, seven years down the line, even after one had moved away and the phone conversations got less and less, they’d still think of the other as their closest mate.   
And then, when that one day comes and they bumped into each other in some really mundane place like the coffee shop, the car park or at the bar, Lance would just start up the conversation they had been talking about all those years ago.   
And it would be like no time had passed at all. Lance was that type of friend. 

Being alone wasn’t a good idea.   
The Yellow Paladin stood, with effort, and made his way down the corridors, taking the long way to the Bridge, making a point to go the long way just to avoid the infirmary and the three figures cloaked in the shadows, standing in front of the defenceless Blue Paladin still trapped in the healing pod. 

_“Let’s begin.”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The Bridge was deadly silent. The faint beeps and trills of the electronics on a constant monitor for the Pirates and distress beacon were the only sounds that fought the silence, except the odd sounds of shuffling.  
The Paladins had gathered once more, save for the Sharpshooter and the Soldier, who remained in their sleep pods. Keith was set to awaken in thirty Dobosh give or take. He had finally relinquished to Shiro’s persistence that he get some rest, and if not in the pod at least sleep in a bed. But Coran had wanted to be sure, and following scans that Keith had received burns and a side effect of overloading to his nervous system through the electricity charge, the Doctor has ordered a minimum of a human hour in the sleep pod.

Shiro agreed. He had been adamant about the younger to rest up, and promised to fill him in on anything they learnt as soon as he woke up. _“You’ll wake before Lance, so don’t worry, you won’t miss out on anything,”_ he promised, watching the vitrified glass slide into place, clicking into place. The hiss of gas and Keith’s eyes slid closed; his body paling from the sudden loss in temperature, his heart rate slowing to the same methodical tune as Lance’s. 

“How’s Lance?” Shiro asked, breaking the heavy silence. He got looks. Tired, pitiful eyes that moved from him to the Altean who knew more than the rest of them. 

“Hard to say,” Coran said, voice still sharp despite the heavy sigh that followed his tone. “He’s resting, but his brain waves are still emitting a lot of energy, more than a sleep stasis should allow, so that is something to look at. His hormone balance has completely shifted and…. And…” Coran dropped his gaze from the group, moving closer to the screen, that has Lance’s vitals on constant display. Just in case.   
He peers at numbers and spiky lines that jumped along the lines, meaning more to him than the rest of them who are only blessed with the knowledge of basic first aid.   
A frown sits on his features. 

“And?” Hunk pushed, suddenly beside him, his nose inches from the visual. He hadn’t seen the anger like Keith or Shiro, and had no qualms approaching the distraught Doctor.   
Instead, he shared in his desperation for answers. Pidge too as they tapped awkwardly on the same key, apparently unaware that the laptop propped on their knees was powered down. 

“That’s the thing. I’m not entirely sure,” Coran said, nudging Hunk away slightly to give himself easier access to the modules keys. “But Lance’s brain activities are puzzling,” he said, more to himself than anything. Hunk doesn’t leave his side though, and they are left staring at wavy lines and a slow, but methodical heart beat. 

It’s sort of… calming. 

The silence returned, heavy like before.   
Pidge thumbed their laptop for nothing to do, resorting to opening the lid, then slamming it shut. But soon it would be open again and, with no further instructions to their brain, would find themselves closing the lid with more force than necessary. 

“Not to be the bringer of bad news,” they said softly, their brain offering scenarios they’d rather not repeat. But smarts outweigh hearts, and they’re talking without looking at faces, eyes on the screen as blank and clear as their mind. 

“But what if we _can’t_ fix this—” they wave their hand in the air, trying to point at the Elephant in the room, “—whatever it is. What if we can’t fix this, because there’s nothing to fix? What if, this is it?”   
They look to the Green Paladin, none quite on the same wavelength, their minds elsewhere while Pidge was thinking to the future, not just on the _now._

“What if there’s nothing wrong with Lance,” they continue, still not lifting eyes from twiddling thumbs. “What if this is him and he’s had enough and he’s… just _done?”_ They finally look up. “We all saw. He tried to _kill_ Keith. He’s not on our side now—”  
“Pidge—”  
“No Hunk I mean it. You don’t just try and kill your best friend if you’re having a bad day. So yeah, we could all sit and chat about why he’s angry, why he wants to hurt us. But isn’t the damage already done?”   
Hunk makes to talk again but Pidge keeps going. “What if something happens? Like right now or later. Because right now, we’re really vulnerable, like _really_ vulnerable. It’s not down to the fact we have two Paladins out of action in cryogen chambers, and yeah I know Keith is coming out in a couple of minutes, but Lance is not and even when he does, what happens when we need to fight?” they asked, sharing their worry with everyone. 

Pidge began to ramble, their words getting away from them. There was too much data for their brain to process and they just began throwing the facts out quick and sharp, skimming over thoughts, trying to untangle the knots inside their head.   
“Like, what if this is damage that can’t be undone with just talking. It was quick, granted, probably started since he and Keith fought during training, just before the pirate attack. And even then, Lance blew up at us because he blew up the ship— Okay, no, he didn’t, but he got angry because I shut him up, but he was fighting first and I was trying to be helpful and I am sorry,” they said gasping for breath.   
Shiro held up a hand, but they weren’t looking, they had dropped their eyes again, words tumbling from their mouth without thought. “But I mean if Lance wakes up and Zarkon appears out of the blue, or the pirates or Galra— Whatever. I just want to know, how are we going to form Voltron, _if_ we even can with Lance the way he is. It’s not just the fight with Keith, he’s kept himself away at the moment, he has been really distant—”  
“Pidge—”  
“Because honestly if we have to fight, I can’t see us winning at the moment with him all—”  
“Pidge—”  
“Silent and sulky and weird, because pulling that spear really fuc—”  
“PIDGE!”

Shiro’s shout cut the Green Paladin short. They looked up, blushed and stared at their toes again. “Sorry. I didn’t want to say it, but it’s the truth. Even if Lance is awake, there’s no way he can keep fighting with us. He’s shown us that.”

Of course Shiro knew. They all knew.   
It had already crossed their minds, whether they wanted to think about it or not. Only Pidge was brave enough to say so out loud.   
Hunk approached, a hand on their shoulder. “Pidge is right. Lance is in no condition to fight beside us. The strain on his body is too much,” he said softly.   
The Yellow Paladin was scared to speak the words aloud, scared to admit that his friend was _not_ himself at the moment. “We’re in danger right now, whether we want to admit it or not. We all know that Lance and Blue are fighting, or at least, they’re not compatible at the moment. We heard her roaring during the fight, even I could hear her pain but Lance didn’t stop. He kept going, like he couldn’t hear her, or… or _feel_ her.”   
“He didn’t even hear her when we found him the first night,” Shiro agreed, thinking out loud. “Our lions could feel her pain and in turn we felt it. But Lance was oblivious. Does that mean she’s rejected him?”   
“Or he rejected her,” Pidge added. 

“This is a serious problem,” Allura said, staring out to space, as if the answers might be written in the stars. But life isn’t that easy, and the princess is left with nothing but a sickness in her stomach for her favourite Blue Paladin.   
What she says next is hard, but it must be said. 

“We need a replacement.”

Eyes turned to Allura, wide in shocked horror. Hunk’s jaw almost hit the deck; Pidge looked like a deer in headlights. The only ones that remained moderately calm were Shiro and Coran.   
“And you’re suggesting—?”  
“Myself,” the Princess said, answering the Black Paladin’s question, stepping closer to him, as if taking the spot light. “I am adept at flying the Lions; I already have a bond with all of them as Princess of Altea, daughter of their creator. I can get Blue to let me pilot her and, if the need arises, I can form Voltron with you.” 

The silence dragged out slowly, but no one disputed her words.   
No one said anything. They just stopped and looked to one another.   
_It wasn’t a bad idea. It was a sure-fire back up plan. It was the plan they needed and it would work… right?_

“Alright. As of now, Allura, you are the Blue Paladin.” Shiro said, his voice calm, without a smile.   
Allura nodded, just as sombre, not at all pleased that she had received the title as Paladin in these circumstances. In fact, she had never wanted the title, didn’t want to push out another or take the place of a Paladin passed. It was just as painful to be a temporary stand-in for Lance until he was back on his feet.

“When Keith wakes up, we can try a mind meld and strengthen our group bond so that if, _and I say if,”_ he said, looking to everyone firmly. “If we need to form Voltron, and if you need to fight with us Princess, it should be easier.”   
Coran scowled. Allura nodded again.   
Pidge stared blankly at their computer screen.   
Hunk rubbed his forehead with his hand. He didn’t want this. He wanted Lance to wake up. He wanted him to wake up and be fine and have no more problems. “I don’t—”  
“I know Hunk,” Shiro said softly, moving closer so that he could put a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “I don’t like it either, but it’s better than being defenceless. We can’t just tell the Pirates and the Galra to stop attacking because we can’t form Voltron with Lance out of action. And we can’t leave the Universe defenceless whilst we help Lance heal and come back to us. I agree that he’s not able to fight with us if he’s fighting with Blue, but I don’t think that he’s not able to overcome this. Whatever _this_ is.”  
He smiled again, meeting Hunk’s eyes with his own. “This isn’t a permanent thing Hunk. But it would be good if any of us, _any of us,_ are out of commission, that we have Allura as back up for Voltron.” 

Hunk resigned himself with a short nod. “I know. I know it’s for the best.”   
He looked to the Princess. They shared the same small, sad smile. “It’s nothing personal Princess. Please don’t think I mean anything by it.”   
But the new Blue Paladin simply shook her head sharply. “Think nothing of it Hunk. Even I am conflicted, and I am the one to bring this idea forward. But what Shiro speaks is true. If Voltron is to remain strong and able to defend the universe, then it is something that must be done.” 

Shiro looked to all of them, crushing the squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew Allura was strong enough to fight beside them, and she would quickly bond with Blue if the Lion listened to her. He knew that the others would need to play their part in convincing their Lions to help Blue settle with Allura while Lance healed.   
The idea of her replacing Lance sat heavy on his chest. _Am I making the right choice Black?_ He asked in his head.   
His Lion rumbled a quiet uncertainty, and Shiro remained uneasy for the future ahead.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The cold of the cryogenic chambers pod was nothing Keith ever looked forward to. Although, the pros definitely outweighed the cons when the Altean technology rendered the machines healing factors other-worldly, meaning broken arms could be fixed in six hours, not six weeks. Not to mention the feeling of utter contentment he felt immediately afterwards.

It’s just, Keith _hated_ being cold.   
It clung to his fingers and his arms and legs. It breathed ice down the back of his neck, making his hair stand up on end, leaving him with the desire for a nice hot bath where he could relax in its warmth for hours and hours after stumbling out of a healing pod.   
Usually, that was what he did. He’d dismiss those gathered to help him when he woke, and promised to see them at breakfast, lunch, or dinner – whatever meal followed his awakening. 

He would’ve now, if it wasn’t for the current circumstances.   
Because when Shiro caught him, there was no smile, no joking greeting of _“welcome back.”_ There was no comfort, nor explanation. 

Only the wide eyes, pale faced glance to the second Cryo-pod. 

Keith already felt dread and knew Shiro’s fear reflected on his own face. It didn’t hit him until he looked himself.   
He had been expecting to see Lance looking worse. He expected his skin to be grey and sunken, or maybe he would be able to see the boy’s bones underneath gossamer skin, or see blood pouring down from new wounds, his body drenched in red. 

He expected forever closed eyes on the corpse of his best friend, perhaps the ghost of a smile of his lips as an apology for not being able to wake up. 

But the chamber was empty. 

_Lance was gone._


	11. A Want To Be Enlightened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART ONE: Lance is missing and the crew are left searching. But first, Pidge figures out a way to find out what Lance has been doing for the past few days. And the crew it heartbroken to find out what the Castle Recordings find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there is a key going on. Anything in italics and in [box brackets] is from the feed. Anything in “speech marks” is happening in real time, so hopefully this chapter flows smoother.

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

The cold of the cryogenic chambers pod was nothing Keith ever looked forward to. Although, the pros definitely outweighed the cons when the Altean technology rendered the machines healing factors other-worldly, meaning broken arms could be fixed in six hours, not six weeks. Not to mention the feeling of utter contentment he felt immediately afterwards. 

It’s just, Keith _hated_ being cold.   
It clung to his fingers and his arms and legs. It breathed ice down the back of his neck, making his hair stand up on end, leaving him with the desire for a nice hot bath where he could relax in its warmth for hours and hours after stumbling out of a healing pod.   
Usually, that was what he did. He’d dismiss those gathered to help him when he woke, and promised to see them at breakfast, lunch, or dinner – whatever meal followed his awakening. 

He would’ve now, if it wasn’t for the current circumstances.   
Because when Shiro caught him, there was no smile, no joking greeting of _“welcome back.”_ There was no comfort, nor explanation. 

Only the wide eyes, pale faced glance to the second Cryo-pod. 

Keith already felt dread and knew Shiro’s fear reflected on his own face. It didn’t hit him until he looked himself.   
He had been expecting to see Lance looking worse. He expected his skin to be grey and sunken, or maybe he would be able to see the boy’s bones underneath gossamer skin, or see blood pouring down from new wounds, his body drenched in red. 

He expected forever closed eyes on the corpse of his best friend, perhaps the ghost of a smile of his lips as an apology for not being able to wake up. 

But the chamber was empty. 

_Lance was gone._

_“Where?”_ he asked, coughs stealing the rest of his words as he struggled to talk through the fog of forced sleep. Dread filled his stomach, his mind pulling up the imagination of a broken body somewhere, Lance crawling through the halls, bleeding from the wound in his side, his back ripped open and he called for help, with no one to help him before he bled out.   
“Oh god Shiro. _Is he d-dead?”_

“No. Just missing,” said a newcomer from the door. It’s Allura, but it doesn’t sound like her. Her usual stern voice, eloquently pulled into a posh accent is scratchy and choked, just as bad as Keith’s. But hers is for a different reason.  
The redness around her eyes tell the Red Paladin she’s been crying, explaining the hoarseness of her voice, why she looks so tired with the way she leans slightly against the door frame.

Keith always thought her pretty when she wore her Altean robes, but now she looks just as haggard as the Paladin’s after a long and weary battle. Her usually flowing hair is harshly pulled back into a ponytail, wispy and incomplete.   
In her hands, she holds a helmet, Blue lining the top brow, clutched tightly in a strong grip that tells Keith far too much and not enough.   
“Where is he,” he asks, pulling himself from Shiro’s grip, reaching Allura, grabbing her arms in his hands to keep his own balance, his mind still warming from the freeze. He shook her when she didn’t reply, pulling her closer, fingers pressing painfully into her flesh. 

“Where is he?” he asked again, voice getting louder, desperate for her to tell him he’s not dead, he’s not dying, he’s—  
“W-we don’t know,” the princess weeps softly, tears pulled from her eyes, her hands trapped by Keith’s before she can reach up and wipe them away. “He was just missing. Pidge and Hunk are looking for him, but he’s not on the ship.”  
“Then where—”

“Not here,” Shiro said, appearing beside them. One hand reaches out to Keith, pulling at his wrist gently, urging him to release Allura. Red marks remained on the Princess’s skin. They would bruise, but no one cared for that right now. 

“When?”  
“We don’t know. We came here, a little less than five minutes ago to wait for you to wake,” Voltron’s Leader said, glancing back to the empty sleep chambers. “When we got here, Lance was already gone. Everyone else went to find him, but I stayed here to wait for you.” He trailed off, looking to Allura, who had come with a message. 

“He took Pidge’s shuttle,” the Princess told the pair of them, looking down to the Blue helmet as more tears poked at the corner of her eyes. She didn’t even try to stop them, but her voice remained level as the explanation continued.   
“It looked like he was already planning this. He’s cleaned out his room, there’s nothing left—”

But Keith doesn’t hear it. He’s already running, passing identical corridors and long stretching halls that are empty of Blue Paladins, injured or otherwise. 

He bypasses the elevator, knowing the damn thing will make him stand still and _¬he just can’t_ right now. So he heads for the stairs, taking them two, three at a time, panting as he races up floor after floor to the sleeping quarters. He’s running down the dormitories to his door and Lance’s that stand opposite one another. _Always so close, but still so far away._

Keith is in Lance’s room; confusion clouding his head as he stands in the familiar room, drastically changed since the last time he had entered, searching for Lance to invite him to come and spar with him while Shiro and Allura talked diplomat with the Coalition. 

Everything is different.   
The walls, once plastered with Alien and Earth posters, are bare and plain. The shelves that run along the tops of his walls are empty; his floor usually hidden under an array of books and game consoles and clothes, is uncharacteristically clear.   
There’s no game stations, no amount of plants taking up space on his dresser, no clothes hanging in his wardrobe. There’s nothing in the drawers, nothing in the bathroom except the echoing drip of a tap that won’t turn off completely. 

The room is empty.   
All except for a red jacket; neatly folded on the end of the bed. The one Keith forgot he had lent to Lance, to help him hide the injuries he received from their mission to _Torous._

But everything else…. _is gone._  
It’s all gone. 

_He’s gone._

“Keith?”

The soldier turns, seeing the brother that left him once. Left him feeling betrayed and hurt and alone on Earth, not knowing if the man was dead or alive, or if he was ever coming back. And he’s stood here now, experiencing the same thing. But it’s not Shiro who has left him. It’s Lance.   
He’s not alone, like he was on Earth. He has Hunk and Pidge, Coran and Allura and Shiro with him.  
But why is it that the pain is so much worse than before? Why does it feel like he can’t breathe? Why is he so cold? Why is he hurting? The room is spinning, he can’t breathe, it’s not right, _it’s not right—_

“Keith? Keith! C’mon breathe Keith!”  
Shiro’s holding him. They’re together, a bunch of tangled limbs sprawled out uncomfortably on the floor of Lance’s empty room. Hunk is beside them, appearing from nowhere. He’s not wearing his copyright smile, his headband lopsided, his hands helping hold Keith who thrashes against the hold on him, trying to find sense as the world seemingly collapses around him. 

“It’s a panic attack Keith, you need to calm down. C’mon you have to breathe. Do it with me. In and out, in and out. That’s it. Slowly… Slowly...”  
And he’s breathing with them, _in out, in out._ The light returns to the corners of his eyes, his head is reeling in pain, heavier than he’s ever felt as it rolls loose at the top of his spine, resting on a shoulder. Keith can’t keep his head upright, but at least he isn’t going to pass out from lack of oxygen.   
He can feel Red with him, purring gently. It’s sad, she can feel his pain too, shares it with her sister who misses her Paladin. _He’s gone._

The episode passes and he comes out of it. They don’t leave him sprawled on the floor, instead helping him so he’s sat on Lance’s bed, his back leaning against the wall of the small alcove. He can’t actually keep his body upright by himself, he’s too tired from lack of energy from the cryogenic chamber and a sudden attack that stole his breath and fed him pure panic. 

Shiro sits beside him, Hunk still with them although he’s standing, eyes cast on the emptiness of the room. They’re all silent and he hates it. He hates the silence.   
Lance is always spouting something to keep it away, always singing something wildly out of tune or loud enough that Keith knows it’s going to be stuck in his head for days until the Blue idiot decides to pick a different song, and the cycle starts all over again.   
It got worse when Pidge and Hunk had worked together to make him a phone, when he found one song he loved because it reminded him of Shakira’s hip song that he can recite word-for-word just because of the sheer number of times Lance played it. 

“Where has he gone?” he asks the silence that he hates so much. 

“He took Pidge’s pod,” Hunk says but Keith shakes his head. “I know that. I want to know where he is now.”   
The yellow’s shoulders sag. “We don’t know, Pidge is still trying to track the shuttle, but they think Lance has disabled the incoming and outgoing transmissions. He’s been thorough.” There’s almost a note of pride to Hunk’s words, but he’s not proud and Keith knows it. He’s worried.   
They’re all worried. 

It was easier when Lance was in the healing pod after their _spar-gone-wrong_ and all they had to think about was why Lance had taken lead in training scores, why Lance had unlocked a second Mark, why the Mark had been turned on Keith and what the meant for the future of Voltron.  
Keith had insisted there was no deeper meaning behind it, even if Coran was worried that Lance was searching for distance. Keith insisted that the two of them were at odds anyway from a fight and he had pushed Lance too far when he retaliated to the baiting, to the taunts and insults that he couldn’t deny was… _not-Lance._  
But what argument could Keith play, now that Lance had _run away._  
And it looked like he didn’t want to be found. He didn’t want to be brought back. 

Keith looked to Shiro, the man who he relied on to have the answers, the man he trusted most in this world.   
He read the lines on his face for the smile he kept hidden, the laughter that would bubble up behind a cheeky smile, the firm slap on the back, the words of apology that this was all a prank and that’s all.   
Lance would waltz in with his cocky know-it-all smirk and everyone would laugh hard at Keith, the mullet-man who was pining over his friend like some love-sick teenager.  
But there was no hidden smile. This wasn’t a joke. This was real.   
And it was heartbreaking. 

“Hunk, would you give the two of us a minute,” Shiro asked softly, his head ever so slightly leaning towards the door as he looked past Keith, to where Hunk was stood, eyes scanning the blankness of the room. He nodded, taking himself out of Lance’s bedroom without anything more than the soft fall of his footsteps. 

When the door had slid shut behind him, Shiro turned back to the boy who could do nothing but watch as the universe around him changed.   
“You okay?”  
“Just peachy.”   
The words catch in his throat at just how Lance-like they sound. It pulls forward another sob, barely suppressed behind firm lips and eye hard-set as the glare at the floor and nothing else. “Shiro I—”  
“He’s not dead.” 

Keith looked to him, his words dying on his tongue, mind painfully blank. Shiro spoke again. “He’s not dead. We’re going to find him. He can’t have gone far in the pod, so we’re going to find him, we’ll bring him back home and _we are going to fix this.”_

His words held weight to them, Keith’s trust behind him as he mindlessly nodded along. “There’s a rift in Voltron and we need Lance back if we’re going to fix it.”   
“What if he doesn’t want to come back?” 

Keith feels small when he speaks, and a thousand times smaller when Shiro rounds on him with the darkest glare only saved for the Galra. “Of course he’ll come back. The only reason he left is… is…” He stops, his eyes widening the fraction of a centimetre.   
It is one of the few times Keith has ever seen Shiro scared, but he doesn’t know why. “Do you know why he left?” Keith asks, standing when Shiro does.  
But the Black Paladin is ignoring him, mutter to himself as he leaves the room, unaware Keith trails behind, a hand on his sleeve. 

“He couldn’t have. There’s no way,” Shiro murmured to himself, walking, _running_ down the corridor, the Red hot on his trail, grip still tight around the older’s wrist. “Shiro where are you going? Do you know where Lance is?” 

Shiro isn’t listening. He’s just running.  
Hunk is ahead of them in the corridor, turning to the sight of the others running towards him. “What is it?” he asked, but Keith hasn’t an answer. “I need to know why he left,” is all Shiro says, veering into the elevator shaft.   
He’s hit the elevator button before Keith and Hunk are completely in, their faces all frozen in varying degrees of shock and horror as the thing trundles up several levels that divide the Bridge and navigation deck from the dormitory halls. 

Keith still hasn’t let go of Shiro’s wrist, shaking him as he keeps asking. “Shiro tell me what’s wrong?”  
“Lance is gone and I need to know why,” is all he says, breaking Keith’s grip as the doors slide open and he’s gone, leaving Keith a trembling mess ready to trip over his limbs, still not quite in the _now._  
Lance is gone, of course he’s gone but he’s not in danger yet, _right?_ Or did Shiro think he was and that’s why he’s…. _he’s what?_

“What happened?” Hunk asks. He’s taken the place of Shiro’s wrist, Keith grabbing him and Hunk holding the Red up, for fear of another panic attack.   
Keith’s not panicking. It’s just his head won’t think in a straight line and there’s a pain throbbing behind his eyes that tells him he needs sleep and food and _Lance._

“Keith, what happened?” They’ve stopped walking now, Hunk standing directly in front of the boy to stop him moving, waiting for answers. He’s talking low, reminding Keith to keep calm, it’s all okay.   
“It’s not okay,” Keith growls, but there’s strength in his voice and he’s standing by himself. He’s still cold; the healing pod’s grip won’t let him go just yet. Maybe that’s why his head is fuzzy. 

A noise trills in the air, followed by Pidge’s voice. “Allura, come to the bridge, you need to see this.” They don’t sound distressed, or at least, no more than they would at the prospect of a missing teammate, so Keith’s fear doesn’t spike any higher than its max capacity, which is where it sits right about now.   
He enters the Bridge alongside Hunk, eyeing the sight of Shiro and Coran stood in front of the main display screen. Shiro is giving direction to Pidge who types the keys, Coran guiding them too when they’re not sure where they’re looking for… live feeds?  
More boxes pop up as Keith and Hunk approach, able to identify different rooms of the ship. There’s the training deck, three times, all at different angles. There’s the kitchen, the lounge, the Lion Hangars, the hall outside the dorms, the bridge, the elevator, the entrance hall and several more corridors.

The biggest screen sat two the left shows a giant image of the Healing Bay.   
It’s empty, but they already knew that. But the picture has Shiro’s utmost interest as the appearance of Coran and Pidge appear. Keith’s head tilts in confusion. Why were they shown there when they are clearly stood here?

The recording Coran punches orders into the console in the middle of the room, watching as a pod lifts from the floor. Pidge has grabbed a support bed and wheels it away from the pod, hurrying to the door, just as Shiro and Keith run in, dragging with them an unconscious Lance, held up in their arms. 

_Oh, it’s the security feed._

“Pidge, can you speed past this. We only need to see from when you left the room, up until the rest of us entering,” Shiro says, stepping closer to the healing bay feed, arms folded and an expression serious as he glares at himself and the clear damage seen over Lance’s back. Hunk gasps, a noise dying in his throat, but the feed flickers and suddenly it’s gone as Pidge’s fingers whiz over to a dial, the recording picking up speed. They watch wordlessly as Coran chases the Paladins out, setting Lance in the pod and checking on his vitals before leaving himself to head to the bridge and inform everyone of the favourite Blue Paladin’s predicament. 

Pidge sped the feed up again, or they planned to.   
But at the appearance of a black cloak in the corner of the screen had them slamming their hand on pause, back tracking to the figure’s first appearance. It wasn’t one, but three small creatures, their bodies covered by the black hoods.   
It didn’t matter. They all knew what was underneath. 

“The Trigamons. But how? Why?” Hunk asked, his words ignored as they all stared up at the sight of the three creatures approaching Lance’s cryo-chamber. Coran paused the feed to heighten the audio feed, listening to the hushed whispers. 

[ _We won’t have enough time Elmore,_ ] one called, everyone’s body’s rigid at the familiar name and the little creature that pulled back its hood to reveal its green furry head. [ _We will if we hurry._ ]  
[ _Elmore, someone’s coming,_ ] the Silver said, rushing towards Lance’s pod, cloak billowing out as they jumped up onto the machine, the Green and Blue following, working together to hide in the shadows of the walls, ducking into space in the rafters, just as Pidge entered the room. 

Shiro hissed in a mix of fear and anger at the sight of the Green Paladin within reach of the black shadows. His fists curled with anger to the creatures, anger to himself. Pidge had been so close to danger without even realising it. What if these aliens had wanted to take more than just Lance?  
Video-him followed shortly behind the Green Paladin, talking with Keith. They all stopped in front of Lance, sharing comfort.   
Three Paladins stood in danger, and Shiro had let it happen. 

Pidge sat with their back to Lance’s pod, leaning against his pod as they pulled up their laptop readings.   
With Keith in the pod, video-Shiro left the room, heading for nowhere in particular. 

Shiro watched as the shadow moved. Shifted. But before they could attack, Pidge got up to leave, leaving Lance and Keith unguarded. Pidge themselves swore out a curse, but no one said anything to them. How were they to know they had stowaways onboard.   
But now, with the infirmary empty, it was the perfect time for the Trigamons to strike. 

The aliens stole from their hiding place. Smooth, slippery, they dropped to the ground like black ink, pooling on the floor, before the cloaks shimmered and rose.   
There was a gasp, but no one turned to see who had arrived; their eyes transfixed on the display of the infirmary security feed.   
Then their voices. Soft and familiar. [ _Is it all clear?_ ] the Blue asked the Silver, who had separated from her brothers to watch the door, pressed against the shadows where they hoped to remain undetected. [ _Quickly. We don’t know how much time we have until they come back to him._ ]

The Paladins watched, helpless as Elmore, the Green Trigamon stood in front of Lance, defenceless, a smile upon the aliens face as he moved even closer. [ _Let’s begin._ ]

They watched as the invader tapped the Cryo-pod with a single claw. Again and again, pulling a horrible trill that he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t heard it before was heard, loud and echoing, over and over until Pidge could take no more and muted the feed.   
The Trigamon tapped again, and again, until the Cryo-chamber couldn’t hold out and open suddenly, throwing its ward onto the cold hard floor of the healing bay. Helpless as he lay at the feet of the creatures that wanted him. 

“No!” Keith yelled, for all the good it did him, watching the two strangers, Green and Blue stand over their prey. The other pressed their hand to the boy’s neck, checked his pulse. Elmore produced a small device from his cloak, white with a vial that held a black substance, pushed into Lance’s vein under his chin. His entire body tensed as the substance crawled under his skin, his body shuddering violently while the two held him down.   
[ _Elmore, this is too much for a final dose. What if he rejects it? Gereen won’t be happy if we kill him._ ]  
[ _Nonsense Wilt, this won’t kill him, not with how much he’s been given so far. Besides, killing him isn’t a part of Gereen’s plan._ ]  
[ _So he told you what he wants with this Human?_ ]  
[ _No. But think about it. Would Gereen really spend three thousand credits on pure grade Sugkie, then waste it on a Culm, just to kill him?_ ]  
[ _I guess not._ ]

They waited until Lance’s body had stopped shaking before they released him, standing back to admire their handiwork.   
And then they were gone; walking away without a look over their shoulders, back towards the Blue Paladin that remained. Unwanted, discarded on the floor. 

And slowly, the boy began to stir.   
Lance, who awoke with no one there for him, pulled too soon from sleep-stasis by the aliens that hadn’t kidnapped him. Infected him, maybe, but left him.   
“Chase them,” Shiro instructed. “We can get back to Lance, but I want to know if they’re still on board.” It turns out the Trigamon left immediately after releasing Lance, jumping out of the castle’s garbage shoot with space suits that they had stashed nearby. They hadn’t set off any perimeter alarms with their small size, but they were long gone by now. 

“So they didn’t take him? Does that mean he up and left of his own accord?” It was Pidge. Their voice growled with anger, their hands tight on the edge of the module, eyes red, the shine of their glasses unable to hide that fact that they were crying.   
“I was worried. So worried for him and that bastard up and left by himself! WHY? WHAT DID WE DO?”

“I think it’s more than that,” Allura said softly. She had arrived sometime during the recording. Now, with hand on Pidge’s shoulder, she steered the Green Paladin closer to her, eyes meeting Shiro, their stiff expressions clear that they already knew the reason.   
“I suggest we start at the very beginning. We know Lance is not on board, and you’re currently tracking the pod in which he took to leave the ship. Whilst your tracking programme continues to try and locate Lance, or your… _angorisms?”_  
“Algorithms,” Pidge corrected with a suppressed smile. 

“Yes that. It will take time for your diagnostics to calculate the likeliest route that Lance would take. In the meantime, we shall review the logs, and gain a clearer picture of the past events that have lead up to his departure. Neither Coran or I were present for Lance’s fight with Keith, and by your findings, Lance has been training a lot in the space of our sleep cycles. 

Pidge gave a small nod, but Shiro wasn’t so sure. “Allura, we don’t need—”  
“We know that Lance isn’t in that pod now,” the princess said, pointing to the feed of the empty infirmary. “But there is much we don’t know, but need to, to understand, in order to find Lance.”  
Shiro doesn’t comply at first, so Pidge bullies him away from the console, taking control. 

The feed is abandoned, the pictures dropping as Pidge replaces it with six lines, labelled with different names. There’s one for each of the Paladins, and a sixth labelled _‘Castle.’_

“Pidge what—”  
“You said beginning. This is the beginning.”   
The Gremlin hits play and the sounds of Lance’s recorded voice fills the silence of the bridge.

[ _Lay off Mullet,_ ] came a familiar, yet painful drawl. [ _Just be thankful I didn’t shoot, if not you would’ve had a face full of laser. Actually, maybe I should have. Then at least I’d been able to fix that atrocious mullet. _]

Pidge was playing the voice recordings from the day of the Pirate attack. 

KEITH: [ _Just try it Lance._ ]  
Keith’s voice sounds angry to him, but he had every right to be. He and Lance had been sparring that morning, and he had noticed the Blue Paladin being a little sluggish. He had wanted to ask him why, but as always, he had been afraid of showing the Blue his concern and instead found himself presenting as angry.   
As usual, the two of them had fallen into another argument.

LANCE: [ _Trust me. If I was shooting at you, I would’ve got a head shot._ ]  
KEITH: [ _I don’t trust you Lance. And if you had, I would’ve just taken your head clean off your shoulders. It wouldn’t have been hard._]   
Keith cringes at his own thoughtless words, already apologising to Lance in his head. Fat lot of help that would do them now.   
He listens as Shiro quietens them, always there to mend whatever Keith breaks. But Keith has broken Voltron. How is he going to fix it this time?

SHIRO: [ _Stow it the pair of you. We’re approaching the Ship now, so get in position._ ]  
LANCE: [ _Aye aye Captain_ ] 

The sound of Lance’s excited cry is cut short by their leader, not for the first time on their mission, but now Keith knows Shiro is regretting his words as much as himself when he says things thoughtlessly. Lance isn’t here to listen to the apologises; the guilt building as the recordings continue and they’re forced listen to just another mission. But for Lance, it wasn’t just _another_ mission. 

Pidge takes the stage with their spiel about the pirate’s jamming signal. Everyone remains focused on the background noise of Lance’s _“mhms,”_ as conformation that he is still listening.   
PIDGE: [ _The Pirates have got some kind of jamming signal on board. Shiro, if you guys land, it will knock out our Comms and we won’t be able to talk to one another._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Then how about you fix it before they land. Or, can’t you fix it?_ ]  
PIDGE: [ _Oh, I can fix it. I just hate it when people start assuming I can do things. It would be nice if you guys stop taking me for granted._ ]   
Pidge and Keith’s bickering gets garbled when they start talking over one another, but suddenly Lance’s voice is loud and no one can keep the smile off their face at the sound of his laughter. 

LANCE: [ _Cue the music guys, I’m going in._ ]  
There was a chorus of [ _no’s_ ] from the other Paladins, before a deafening screeching took their place. Everyone recoiled.   
Keith ducked, as if the ship had been hit, Pidge dived to their chair, their hands clamping down on their ears to stop the bleeding sound before it could deafen them. Coran was quick enough to turn the volume down, pausing the feed so that everyone could re-center themselves again. “What the bloody hell was that?” Hunk asked, wide eyes as he looked about. But no proximity alarm sounded, so it was clear that it was simple from the feed.   
“I think that was the jammers,” Allura said dutifully. 

And true enough, when the made to play the recording, the screech started up again. Yet the sound didn’t interfere with the recordings, and Lance’s voice carrying out over the god-awful sound.   
LANCE: [ _Ow! What the hell is that? Blue turn it off!_]   
HUNK: [ _Lance! Lance come back!_ ] But Hunk’s voice gets no further. Keith remembered them all yelling out for Lance, but the Blue Paladin had never returned anything other than static.   
PIDGE: [ _Hunk he can’t hear you. It’s the jamming signal, its stopping our transmission from getting through. He’s too close to the ships to hear us._ ]  
HUNK: [ _We have to move, he needs help._ ]  
KEITH: [ _He needs to learn to listen first before he goes shooting off ahead to get himself into more bloody trouble._ ]  
HUNK: [ _He– Wait, what’s he doing? Oh god, Lance no!_ ]  
Keith closes his eyes as he listens to the panic in the recording, remembering as he watched the Blue Lioness stop in the dead-space between the two Pirate ships, completely open to their rail guns. He was worried for Lance himself, and they had all called out.   
Hunk had forced Yellow faster, but the Lion was slow and wasn’t as fast as his Blue counterpart. Even Red seemed slow, held back by Keith’s hesitance and their shared feeling of fear. 

SHIRO: [ _Wait Hunk, we have to get Pidge to counteract against the jamming signal, or we’ll be cut off from everyone._ ]  
HUNK: [ _I don’t care, Lance needs our help!_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Hunk pull back!_ ] Hunk had ignored him, urging Yellow faster. But before Hunk could slam into Lance and take his place as the pirate’s target, the Blue Lioness had shot forward at the last instant, Lance yelling [ _anchors away Blue!_ ] as he did, out of range, forcing the ships to fire on themselves in the confusion. 

CASTLE: [ _Paladins, what is happening? Why is Lance the only one engaging the pirates?_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _They have a jamming signal Princess. We’ve lost contact with Lance, but we’re holding back as Pidge is working around it. We should be good to—_ ]  
PIDGE: [ _I’m done, Shiro we can go now!_ ]

LANCE: [ _Damn it. Quick Blue! We've got to get in front and draw their fire away._ ]   
Lance was still talking to himself, ignoring the others as usual, though Keith hadn’t remembered Lance speaking even after Pidge had managed to disable the jamming signal. He had assumed the boy was silently sulking, so the extra vocals were a surprise.   
They were only small remarks though, none directed to the team, nor any that contributed to the plan of working together to scare off the ships. The main focus had been securing the crew of the assaulted cargo ship, the orders relayed through the Comms.   
SHIRO: [ _Well done team, the pirates are retreating. Hunk and I will secure the ship—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Pidge and I will stay out here to make sure they’re gone. If they decide to come back when we’re all inside the ship, we’re as good as sitting ducks._ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Alright. Coran set up a proximity scan, just as a backup. Lance, you’re with me and Hunk. Let’s go help the crew._ ]  
But the Blue Paladin hadn’t replied as confirmation to Shiro’s orders. Keith had searched for him, aware that he hadn’t heard from him – Lance was probably still sulking – and got annoyed, turning to watch him still attacking the Pirate ship. 

KEITH: [ _C’mon Lance, let them go already, they’re retreating._ ]  
But Lance hadn’t, and Keith had piloted Red between him and his opponent, facing her so that she floated opposite her sister.   
LANCE: [ _What the— Keith get out the way!_]   
Keith felt himself frown, wondering if he’d missed this part of the conversation. But he was sure Lance had remained silent. It didn’t matter now. Here he was, on recording, talking. And here was Keith ignoring him. [ _Lance, stop! Let them go. Shiro already gave you an order to join him on the ship. Lance!_ ]  
PIDGE: [ _Shout a little louder Keith, I didn’t think he heard you in the vacuum of space._ ]  
KEITH: [ _Oi, Lance. I bet you’re not even listening, are you? I said get back to the cargo-ship!_ ]  
LANCE: [ _We can’t let them get away._ ]

SHIRO: [ _C’mon Lance, leave the Pirates. We have to check on the Crew first._ ]   
It was all, “ignore Lance and focus on the mission.” He must’ve had a reason, or maybe he’d thought of something or… or _something._ But they didn’t listen. They just talked over him, ordered him to follow commands and got angry when he was just trying to help. 

LANCE: [ _But Shiro—_ ]  
PIDGE: [ _We don’t have time for mutiny. Besides, I’ve already thrown a signal into their transmissions, hijacking the jammer frequency, so the next time they send out any sort of beacon, we’ll get their immediate location and we can go chase them then._ ]   
LANCE: [ _But—_ ] And a chorus of [ _Not now Lance_ ] shut him up. Shiro, Allura and Keith blushed at their outburst, but their eyes remained on the sound wavelengths jumping up and down with any sound coming through on the transmission feed.

They were in the cargo-ship’s hangar the next time someone spoke. It was Hunk. [ _Shiro… the crew, you don’t think that… that maybe they’re all… that we’re too late?_] The boy’s voice was small and quiet. If anyone else was listening, they wouldn’t be able to discern that it was the voice of Voltron’s favourite teddy bear.   
SHIRO: [ _We can’t be certain Hunk. There may be some parts of the ship that remain intact. Let us hope the crew have gathered there._ ]  
[ _Let us hope,_ ] Lance repeated, his voice just as uncertain as they others. 

They can all hear when the Trigamons show up, Hunk cursing the alien that introduces himself as Elmore, the same one that led the other three to release Lance from the cryogenic sleep and inject him with the mysterious something.   
They listened in anger as the creatures lied about their broken ship. Or maybe it was and they had found their own loophole in the Paladin’s need to save them. Whatever it was, Lance had paid the price. 

[ _But what about the pirates?_ ] Hunk asked, not one to forget the looming threat that no one knew was permanently gone or not. They weren’t, but the Paladins weren’t to know that at the time.   
SHIRO: [ _That is why we’ve got Keith and Pidge on the outside. Keith, you remain on lookout—_ ]   
[ _No need,_ ] Pidge interrupted. [ _I’ve got that tracker system working Shiro. They’re not here. In fact they’re nowhere near us. The readings say that they’ve stopped on the slip-side of Nix._ ]  
CASTLE: [ _Nix? Are you sure?_ ] Allura’s voice rang loud with fear, and everyone knew why. But they had other fears now. Even the Princess as grimaced at her own words. [ _Unless they’ve got portal technology they shouldn’t be able to cover that distance in the short amount of time. Nix is four Varga at full thrusters power from our location. There’s no way they should be able to cover that distance._ ]   
The feed sounded with Coran’s voice, assuring the Princess that only the Castle of Lions was capable of Portal technology, and the ability to develop such space travel was lost with the destruction of Altea. [ _It is not just the Technology Princess. Portal technology isn’t capable without Altean Magic, which was infused from the ore that was used in the creation of the Lions, or the Castle._ ]

CASTLE: [ _Which leaves the question, Coran, how were they able to jump from the Nairn System to the Karta XI System in the space of seven Dobosh? It shouldn’t be possible._ ]  
LANCE: [ _Maybe they had some wicked cool boosters._ ]  
SHIRO: [ _You can’t go after them._ ]  
LANCE: [ _But Shiro, I can—_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Be of better use to us here, rather than chasing off after the Pirates. This isn’t a game Lance._ ]

Shiro was scowling again, his hands clenched into fists, his fingers leaving crescent moon scars on one hand, the other creaking from the sheer pressure. No one said anything when he brought his fist down onto the console, his hands shaking with more than just anger.   
Keith wanted to go and soothe his pain, but his feet were glued to the floor, and he took relief in the fact he hadn’t been the only one to give Lance a hard time. _That’s not a good thing to be happy about,_ he admonished himself.   
Allura took the responsibility of calming Shiro and stood beside him, offering words and arms that loop around him, his head resting on her shoulder. At least his hands aren’t in fists anymore. 

KEITH:[ _Do you want us in there?_ ]  
Keith had wanted to help. He didn’t mind looking out for the Pirates, but when he was certain that they had fled and weren’t to return, he wanted to be aboard the ship, helping make sure the crew were safe. He felt obsolete floating in space, and no matter how much Red tried to calm him with their link, he hadn’t been able to shift the uneasiness he felt. _And for good reason._

SHIRO: [ _No Keith, stay outside and keep an eye on any approaching vessels. Red has better manoeuvrability than that of the castle, so if a fire-fight does happen, you’ll be able to provide support. We know there are more than two ships out there, so keep your eyes peeled. Pidge, keep tracking the ships. Tell me if they start moving again, the direction and speed. Try to monitor how they’re moving so quickly._ ]   
[ _Rodger,_ ] the Paladins replied in unison, the Comms crackling into silence, the transmission lines falling to flat line as silence swarms the feed. 

Keith takes the opportunity to look at his teammates. Coran has found interest in the floor. Hunk is beside him, his arms wrapped around himself in a tight hug, the big guys face contorted in hate and anger. Pidge, hands still on the console wears the mask of disinterest. He doesn’t like it and crosses the two-step gap to the little Green Paladin. They let him, sniffs in thanks, and wraps their arms around Keith’s pulling him closer in an odd moment of skin-ship he is willing to be a part of.   
“You okay?” he asks, hating the sound of his own voice. “Better than him,” they say, nodding at their Leader, who is tense from his own thoughtless words. 

LANCE: [ _Shiro, I still think—_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Lance. Let us just sort out the ship first. You can go play Pirate Hunter when the Aliens are safely escorted off the ship._ ] 

The silence is heavy around them once more. Keith can’t stand it, but he can’t leave either.   
There’s comfort from hearing Lance’s voice, although it’s all in the past, before all the hurt and hatred that consumed him.   
But listening, he can hear what has driven Lance away.   
Or, for a better word, whom. 

“Give me a minute, I’ll be back,” Pidge said quickly, slipping from Keith’s hug as they strode out the room, supplying an excuse to get away from their own snarky little jibes as the three-man team stalk the corridors in search of the “trapped” Trigamon crew.   
Keith watched Pidge go, planning to follow when he tenses at the sound of Lance’s joyful voice. [ _He reminds me of Stitch just a little bit._ ]  
Keith knew what followed, and was already wishing that he had followed the Green Paladin. 

KEITH: [ _No one has time for your lame jokes Lance, you’re on a rescue mission._ ]   
LANCE: [ _I wasn’t joking about. I was making a scientific observation._ ]   
It was the beginning of their argument. Keith was already curling in on himself, eyes scrunched tight as he heard his clipped tone speak when he wished it wouldn’t. 

KEITH: [ _No, you’re just being distracting. If I was down there, I wouldn’t be pissing about._ ]   
[ _Stop it,_ ] Lance hissed, but Keith being Keith just _had_ to keep the argument going. [ _No Lance, you stop it._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith I meant—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _You should take this seriously, considering your screw up this morning._ ]   
Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

LANCE: [ _You’re still hampering on about that—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _You almost shot me!_] Keith’s voice was halfway between a shout and a screech, making the mic sing three octaves higher than anyone wanted. But it wasn’t as bad as the Jammer noise.   
Hunk was beside him, a hand on his back. “It’s okay, you didn’t mean it.” He means it, but when Keith looks up, he can’t force himself to smile. He turns away, not wanting to hear it, but Hunk’s hand stops him from fleeing. He had to hear his hurtful words, and feel the harm they brought to his friend. 

It was the recording of their mighty leader that swooped in with a sharp [ _Enough!_ ] his voice raised, interrupting the argument. [ _We have a mission guys, so let’s stick with—_ ]  
[ _But he started it,_ ] Lance whined. Keith wished he could apologise, wish he could step in and say to Shiro, _“yeah, I started it, I’m sorry.”_  
But hindsight was a bitch for a reason and they’re all dunked in the preverbal ice bath when Shiro interrupts Lance again. Louder. Angrier. 

LANCE: [ _Shiro—_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _NO!_ ]   
Shiro’s shout echoed throughout the silence of the bridge, each one giving him a sympathetic look. He hit the console again, a whine slipping from between his lips. Keith was shocked to see him red-eyed, holding back tears. Allura is whispering to him, her hands firmly wrapped around him now as their bodies rock back and forth, but it’s hard to see if it’s helpful or not. At least she is there for him. 

Keith should be there for Lance. 

The recording keeps going, Lance calling out, but the sudden noise of something dull smacking another stops him instantly. Keith feels his eyebrows knit together, wondering what, but the Hunk-recording explained. [ _Pidge turned your Comms off to stop you bickering._ ]

LANCE: [ _Pidge change it back,_ ] he growled, but he was simply ignored. _How could they—?_  
LANCE: [ _Oi guys, don’t ignore me. Shiro, tell Pidge to un-mute me. Oi, don’t ignore– Shiro. Shiro for fuck’s sake—_ ]  
HUNK: [ _Shiro, how are we going to open the doors?_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _I’m not sure. Either reroute power or break through with brute force?_ ]  
HUNK: [ _Well we can’t use the Lions. The corridors are too small to navigate._ ]

LANCE: [ _Yeah, real mature guys, just ignore me while I stand five feet from you. Because that’s how this team works. You guys all get the glory and I get the dog house for opening my mouth to suggest a perfectly reasonable explanation to a perfectly explainable problem._ ]  
Recording-Shiro blanks him, still focused on the problem of the trapped crew. 

The real Shiro still looks angry. He’s paler than usual.   
“Sit him down,” Hunk says from his place by Keith. Then he’s walking over towards their leader, a hand on Keith’s wrist to drag him too. “Shiro, sit down. This is not your fault. Hey, listen to me.” Hunk, tender loving Hunk, grabbed Shiro’s chin and jerked it so the man met his eyes. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”   
“But I shouldn’t have let Pidge silence him like that. He got caught in the blast and I—”  
“It was my fault too.” 

Pidge was stood in the doorway. In their hands they had Lance’s helmet and Keith’s. No one questioned them as they approached the main system, just letting the little genius do their thing as they wired the helmets up, rambling as they did so.   
“It was irresponsible of me, but at the time I had a reason to silence him. None of us knew what was going to happen, so none of us are truly to blame. But listening to this might help us find Lance, so for his sake we have to listen.”  
“Number five is right,” Coran agreed, coming closer to the gathered group. “We’ll listen, and then we’ll talk. And when we find Lance, we’ll apologise to him.” The recorded words brought smiles to faces at its timing.   
Without a word, the team settled on the floor, their legs a tangle of their limbs as the recording continued. 

SHIRO: [ _Lance, you’ll need to head to the power grid. Once I patch the problem in the engines, you can power up the ship. There probably won’t be much of a window, so you’ll have to open the hangar doors before the ship’s system automatically shut down again._ ]  
And so signified Lance leaving the group. 

SHIRO: [ _Alright. Elmore, where am I headed?_ ]  
KEITH: [ _You sure you don’t need one of us down there? I can run back to the Castle to get Green then meet you on board._ ] The offer had been dismissed once again, the team splitting up tasks.   
Quiet filtered from thinking, and in the midst of it, they heard Lance’s voice: [ _I’m good Blue. It’s just me over thinking things again. But thanks._ ]   
It’s small and quiet, and Keith can only imagine what Lance is thinking, conversing with Blue. But his voice cuts over the quiet and the recording of his own voice is talking as if he didn’t hear it. _He doesn’t remember hearing it._

“I thought you said you muted him,” Keith said, turning to the Green. “I did, sort of,” they mumbled. “I turned off his notifications to the public chat so to speak. He was still speaking, but his suit wasn’t broadcasting it to us, so we can still hear what he says.  
“I got his helmets too, because it will have its own recorded memory of your trip to _Torous._ I want to look through as well.” They nod themselves into silence, and the Comms continued. 

SHIRO: [ _Alright, Wilt and I will head to the lower deck, to see if we can get the engines ready. Keith, are you still in position?_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Pidge and I are good on our end._ ]  
PIDGE: [ _I still think this is a lot of hassle to keep the ship functional. I mean, I get that we just have to open the doors, but why don’t we float this ship down to a planet and open the doors where there is already a breathable atmosphere._ ]  
KEITH: [ _And have the ship burn up on re-entry? We’d still have to get the power source working for the shields to protect the ship or the crew will be cooked alive._ ] The Pidge-recording grumbled to themselves, muttering [ _this is why the Galra are smarter. Androids don’t have to worry about air pockets and can still shoot you in the guts if there’s a hole in the side of the ship._ ]  
HUNK: [ _That’s not smart, that’s scary._ ]

Silence again. 

LANCE: [ _I just wanted to help._ ]  
Then, Lance is impersonating Shiro, his words spiteful. [ _Oh no, you can’t have fun Lance. Got to stay serious, got to be the good solider that follows orders without question. Why can’t you be more serious like Keith? He’s a good soldier. Or hey, be useful like Pidge or Hunk. They’re smart; they don’t turn everything into a game. Even Coran is useful and he doesn’t drive a Castle or a fucking Lion. Be more like him. Be anyone except yourself._ ] His tone falters to the end and everyone can feel his own self-directed anger.   
Did he really think that about himself? That he wasn’t useful, that he shouldn’t be himself?

Lance continues to mutter under his breath, but under the sounds of the remaining Paladins talking, the words are indiscernible. Pidge moves from the group to quieten everyone’s voices except for Lance’s before returning to the floor where Hunk opens his arms invitingly. 

LANCE: [ _Hey guys…?_ ] he said, his voice trailing off. [ _Yep, just checking I’m still muted. Just letting you know I’m lost. Not that you know, you can’t even hear me. And now I’m just talking to no one. At least they don’t ignore me._]  
He keeps insulting himself, swapping between little voices as he does. Until [ _there you are you little bugger. Had me scouring the entire level to find you. Come on work with me._ ]  
The helmet mic had picked up sounds around him, and Keith cringes at the creaking of metal. It whines and groans, and one last give has Lance yelling in victory. Then cursing once more. [ _Just… let… me… in…_ ]

Everyone has completely blocked out their own voices now, focusing solely on the sound of the Blue Paladin manoeuvring throughout the ship. When suddenly [ _Hello? I’m a paladin of Voltron. I’m here to help._ ]

It was as if someone turned the lights off. Everyone tensed, their eyes wide, holding their breath. They hadn’t heard the confrontation between Lance and the pirates still on board the ship, only knowing of the explosion. Lance hadn’t said he’d faced them, just that they’d just ran from him, blasting open a window for a quick escape. Had he lied?

LANCE: [ _And bingo. There’s the problem._ ]  
What had he found? Not the Pirates, surely. He started humming to himself, his tone light, mixed with laughter, an octave higher than normal. 

Hunk heard it first: the low hum underneath the sound of Lance whispering to himself. No one expected the cry of pain. Allura sat upright, her shoulder shunting Keith who wore the same expression. Their eyes met but there was no comfort from the other. 

[ _G-guys, there’s still…. St-still someone on board,_ ] Lance choked, voice tight. He was hurt, or at least winded. More lasers sounded, but now pained sounds from the Blue Paladin who shouted [ _Halt!_ ]

Silence. Then screaming.   
It was Lance, hurt, in pain, calling out for the others to help him but stranded without a life line. They had muted him and left him to the mercy of the pirates, who fired again, Lance’s voice torn apart as he screamed. “What are they doing?” Pidge sobbed, but no one wanted to know. Not really. 

Lance was coughing, wheezing, whimpering painfully. His breaths were rattled and Keith could hear the tears falling. 

LANCE: [ _Shit, shit, shit! C’mon Lance, you have to move._ ]

Keith hated it. Hated knowing that all of this had already happened and he couldn’t do anything to warn Lance, to swoop in and help him. God, he was in pain and he hadn’t said anything. No one had even bothered to find out.

LANCE: [ _Come on! You’re a Paladin of Voltron. Get! Up!_ ] He was still talking to himself, still urging his body, although damaged, to walk. Whimpers broke through the noise, accompanied by sobs from Hunk and Allura alike, listening to the sound of Lance unable to give up, facing the Pirates once more. 

LANCE: [ _No, WAIT!_ ] But whatever was happening, Lance had been unable to stop them.   
Then came the shrill of a phaser blaster and the sound of the bridge exploding. [ _NO!_ ]

KEITH: [ _What was that?_ ]  
PIDGE: [ _Guys what happened?_ ]  
HUNK: [ _Elm- Aagh, guys help–_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Guys, guys come in. Is it the Pirates, are they attacking?_ ]

The voices are wild and loud, but none so much as Lance’s, which tears through the babble with panic. [ _Keith, Pidge, help me!_ ]  
He was screaming, yelling, panic threatening to choke his air supply, coughing on the simple words as he hurtled in the vacuum of space. [ _Blue! Help me BLUE!_ ] It fills the room, echoing louder and louder until Keith feels it deep inside him. _Make it stop, make it stop—_

[ _BLUE!_ ] And Lance is laughing, because Blue is there for him. When no one else noticed he was in danger, Blue was the one to rescue him, to save him. The fear in Keith froze to a lump he couldn’t swallow. 

LANCE: [ _The breach, we have to seal it._ ]  
His voice is small now, but no less painful, his breath rattled, not just from fear but the pain of being hurt in the explosion. They’d heard it, Keith had bloody seen it, but he had completely missed Lance and the fact that the Blue Paladin, caught up in such explosion had been hurt because of it. Because of the pirates too.

Lance sounds tired, his voice is scratchy from screaming, but he’s still talking to Blue, as if they’re having a conversation to one another, as if Blue can use actual words: [ _No Blue, I can’t. The plan has changed now we can’t manually open the doors from the outside. The team need me awake; you can’t let me fall asleep._ ] 

The team waits with baited breath, no one looking to another as they know what is about to follow.   
They listen to the boys cries, muffled, a biting pain behind every inhale. Keith and Shiro glare angrily at the floor. They _know._

LANCE: [ _Oh, so now they want to talk to me._ ]  
Keith visibly winces and Pidge’s hand is there to comfort him. They had asked for him, received nothing and realised that Lance was still off _“group chat.”_ They corrected their mistake, desperate for Lance to reply to them when he didn’t reply at first. So they had tried again, eventually Lance accepting the transmission feed, opening him up to everyone’s worry.   
SHIRO: [ _Are you okay? What happened?_ ]   
HUNK: [ _I’m good. Just bumped a little. Elmore is unconscious though. He hit his head when we got thrown back, although I can’t say why. Was it pirates?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Hunk, you alright buddy?_ ]  
HUNK: [ _Yeah, yeah I’m good. Just got taken by surprise._ ]  
LANCE: [ _That’s good, that’s good. Where you are now, are you—_ ]  
HUNK: [ _In Yellow, yeah. I think that’s what saved me cause Blue just— Lance, is she with you? She just freaked out and broke out her ice wall._ ] But before Lance can confirm that Blue had indeed gone to save him, Allura spoke up, her voice taking centre stage. [ _But you’re okay._ ]   
SHIRO: [ _Just knocked back. We’re heading to the trapped crew know, are they—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _They’re still trapped. Lance is trying to kill them._ ]   
LANCE: [ _What? No I’m not!_ ] He hissed in pain, but no one seemed to notice. It was like they didn’t care. That must’ve been what Lance thought. 

KEITH: [ _–Then what the hell was that explosion? It took out half the bloody bridge and almost the entire ship and the same time!_ ]   
LANCE: [ _That wasn’t my fault, that was the Pirates that were still onboard–_ ] Lance hissed again, barely suppressing a whimper that no one heard. [ _–And if someone hadn’t muted me, I would’ve been able to tell you that. And maybe I could’ve also told you that they were—_ ]   
KEITH: [ _Pidge shut you up, not me._ ]   
[ _Don’t you dare drag me into this,_ ] Pidge said, barely getting the words out before Lance’s temper snapped and he was shouting in barely restrained anger. 

[ _ARE YOU GOING TO LISTEN TO ME?_ ]

The anger was… _powerful;_ harsher than they remembered. Keith had reeled backwards, sat left blinking at the words thrown ferociously at him through his headset. He’d been worried for the other with the silence, but Shiro’s orders left him without a way onto the ship and check on him.   
And now he was receiving the backlash of keeping quiet. 

[ _Pirates were on board and attacked me. Could I warn you guys? Could I ask for help? No, because someone muted me.  
Pirates stole the generator core’s fuel supply. Pirates stole the ship’s log data. Pirates blew up the bridge to escape, but could I warn anyone? Could I ask for help when I was shot out to space?_

_NO. Because you guys cut off my Comms and left me to deal with this shit by myself._ ]

No one said anything, not even now as they listened to Lance’s outrage.   
[ _I was up here on my own, without any way of contacting you guys. I’m lucky I have a mental connection with Blue because she just saved my life. So before you have a go at me for saving my own neck, think whether or not this whole business was my fault or not._ ]

Then they all heard the unmistakable click as Lance muted himself once more, ignoring all attempts that Pidge had tried to reach back out to him.   
SHIRO: [ _It’s okay Pidge. Let’s just give him space. If he got thrown out to space, he must be a little shaken up. It’s not personal._ ]  
Or was it? They had no way of asking Lance, who was still hurting, still thinking he wasn’t wanted, still _gone._


	12. A Want To Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART TWO: Lance is missing and the crew are left searching. But first, Pidge figures out a way to find out what Lance has been doing for the past few days. And the crew it heartbroken to find out what the Castle Recordings find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So another review chapter and the key is the same, so [box brackets] is the feed. “Speech marks” is happening in real time.

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

By the time Pidge has skipped through the rescue of the Trigamons and found the video feed, quickly identifying the same three aliens that had remained on the ship, everyone else had settled more comfortably in the room.   
Hunk had retrieved a warm drink for Keith, who was still feeling the effects of the healing pod, practically ordering him to sit in his chair where it wouldn’t matter if he fell asleep or not.   
But Keith couldn’t fall asleep. Not when Lance needed finding and the fearful curiosity for what had transpired over the past few days, him blissfully unaware while Lance watched the world crumble around him. 

_Was this all his fault?_  
If admitting to his feelings, at least showing Lance more compassion, more friendship even if it was just smiles and a pat on the back… Would they not be where they were, right now, if Keith wasn’t such a bloody coward? Or would it be worse?

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Shiro almost arguing with Pidge. “Look, I get it, I said shit things and I need to apologise for them. But you guys don’t need to hear.”  
“We need to,” Pidge began, but Shiro shook his head. “You don’t get it. I said some _really_ horrible things to him. I didn’t mean to. I was worried about everyone. We were all separated and I…” Shiro dropped his head into his hands, pulling at his fringe for self-inflicted pain. “It’s bad, alright? What I said was unneeded and it was harsh. I don’t want you to hear it.”   
“I do.” 

Hunk stood up, his eyes without their usual warmth. “I don’t care Shiro. We’ve all said things to hurt Lance and drive him away, or we haven’t said them and driven him away nonetheless. But we’re beyond keeping secrets now.”   
They all looked to him, Pidge’s fingers hovering over the keys. With a subtle nod from Shiro, they tapped the recording to start playing, eyes rising to the floating screen of Shiro waiting by Blue’s paw for a certain injured Paladin. He was the last to enter the Lion Hangar.

[ _Hey Shiro, you doing well?_ ] Lance had asked as soon as he was close enough to Shiro, easily able to hide the damage inflicted by enemy and explosion alike.   
[ _Are you?_ ] Shiro asked, a hand motioning to the boy. There had been laser residue on his right thigh, Shiro naively thinking that that was all Lance procured from ambush.   
[ _Just a scratch. Guess the Pirate’s aim is as good as a Storm Trooper when it comes to gun battles._ ] Lance shrugged. Keith felt his stomach twist. How much pain was he in? Was he seriously going to hide it? Yes, his mind supplied. He did and he would continue to, even as he crossed his arms and pain flashed across his expression. [ _If you want to talk about what I said, can we do it after I have a shower and a power nap? I’m kind of drained._ ] Yeah no kidding.   
But by the way Shiro stared painfully at their teammate, how fervently he had begged them not to watch, Keith knew Lance wasn’t going to get off easy. 

SHIRO: [ _Look, I get you were angry at Pidge—_ ]  
[ _Not just at Pidge,_ ] Lance muttered, uncrossing his arms. Keith’s stomach flipped again. 

SHIRO: [ _Look—_ ]   
LANCE: [ _I had no control of the explosion._ ]   
SHIRO: [ _Unless you set a bomb off yourself, I’m not holding you accountable for that, nor the fact that you were alone on the ship with pirates—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _And no way to call for help._ ] Lance was still angry, despite Shiro’s plans for quiet between him and the team, allowing him time to calm down. 

SHIRO: [ _And no way to contact us, you’re right. But Lance, you have to understand, this could’ve gone a lot smoother if you had cooperated from the start._ ]   
The lecture began; the usual Dad talk after a good mission, “could’ve been better.”  
It wasn’t so bad, so Keith wasn’t too sure what Shiro was worried about. 

[ _Lance, you can’t just fly off in front of everyone when we had a plan in place. Pidge warned us about the jammers, but you didn’t think and went in anyway. And when you got in between the ships._ ]   
Then Shiro’s façade changed; both himself and his video recording. While the digital Shiro raised himself up, the real Shiro averted his eyes, looking meek, watching Hunk, waiting for the backlash. 

[ _You know if Hunk had been any closer he would’ve rammed you out the way and gotten hit himself. God damn it, he fucking tried, but lucky for him, Yellow isn’t fast and couldn’t get there. Yellow’s limitations saved him, but if they hadn’t then he would’ve been hurt, Yellow would’ve been damaged too. Black is still banged up from our last run in with these Pirates. And alright it wasn’t your fault…_ ]   
The anger was a shock of course, fading as quick as it came, but video-Shiro was still talking.   
[ _Fine, everything worked out this time. This time, Lance. But what about next time? What about when Pidge has to step in, and they get hurt? What if Allura or Coran suffer the consequences, what if it is Keith who steps in—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _Like that will happen._ ] 

And this time it’s Keith recoiling. Sure, he kept Lance at arm’s length to stop his emotions getting the better of him, and sure they fought more than they had a normal conversation but… did Lance really think Keith wouldn’t sacrifice himself for Lance, for any of them? They were family. _Of course he would!_  
[ _It could,_ ] Shiro growled, supporting Keith’s inner rant. The Red looked to his leader, but his gaze returned to the feed, determined to look nowhere else.   
LANCE: [ _Yeah, in what universe? If you hadn’t noticed, he hates my guts._ ] Not true.   
SHIRO: [ _He doesn’t hate you, but you certainly annoy him when you don’t take things serious like him, you don’t follow orders like he does, you don’t put your all—_ ]  
[ _Like hell I don’t,_ ] Lance spat, matching the Black Paladin’s volume. 

Glances were exchanged, Shiro ignoring the turns of heads to glare at the recording of himself. It sounded a thousand times worse when he heard it played back to him, watching the obvious lines of exasperation on his face, where Lance only wanted to be listened to, to be heard, to be understood.

When Lance spoke again, his voice was eerily calm. [ _Look, I get that you and Keith seem to hold each other on pedestals and he’s the perfect soldier for this little Voltron game we’re all stuck playing, but if you want me to be like him, to follow orders without question, you’ve got to realise that’s not me._ ]   
SHIRO: [ _That is beside the point._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Is it?_ ]

Video-Shiro shook his head, trying to return to the matter at hand. [ _Look, I get that this is fun. Space Pirates, god knows I loved them as a kid, but we’re paladins of Voltron, Lance. We’re not five._ ]   
[ _Except you,_ ] Lance said with a smirk.   
SHIRO: [ _Except me— Hey! I’m being serious Lance._ ]   
LANCE: [ _And I’m wondering if you have a point to this conversation._ ] 

The anger was unnerving, particularly know that everyone realised that Lance was serious here. This wasn’t a joke; this wasn’t for anyone’s entertainment. This was him, hitting his limit, reaching his breaking point. 

Shiro scowled. Lance stared. 

Then Shiro decided to proverbially slap the boy across the face with his words. [ _Just grow up Lance. You’re meant be a Paladin of Voltron._ ] 

Hunk glares. Keith glares too. Allura removes herself from where the two had been hugging.   
Shiro says nothing. He stands and moves away to one of the windows, staring out at nothing as his voice carries in the silence, his harsh words repeated, their damage easily heard as Shiro beats away at Lance’s confidence. Just because he’s angry?   
Yeah so what, no one is there to hold his hand. They’re on Lance’s side. Even Shiro. 

LANCE: [ _Yeah, I get it, I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time._ ]   
SHIRO: [ _Lance—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _Honestly Shiro, I understand, loud and clear._ ] 

Lance turns around, to start walking away, but the bow out isn’t excepted. By the window, Shiro’s glare hardens as the recorded him keeps going. [ _Yes. Stop being reckless. Stop making things more difficult than they already are. You seem to constantly butt heads with Keith for this game of rivalry, and I wouldn’t say anything against it; healthy competition will help you improve your skills. But I won’t ignore it when you’re endangering the rest of the team._ ]   
LANCE: [ _I didn’t—_ ] but Shiro cut him off. [ _The reason Pidge turned off your Comms was because you couldn’t stop bickering. You took focus away from the mission, in an unknown environment which was dangerous._ ]   
LANCE: [ _And leaving me on mute was the best idea you could come up with?_ ]  
SHIRO: [ _Stop challenging everything I say!_ ]   
The recording was yelling now, Shiro clenching his fists, turning his back on himself. And he’s still not fucking done. 

SHIRO: [ _Just take responsibility for your mistakes Lance, because today, it was your fault. No one else is to blame, not Pidge for cutting communication considering they were patching the problem you caused with Keith._ ] 

SHIRO: [ _I can’t keep doing this Lance. Every time, you screw up, every time I’ve got to stand here and tell you, you can’t seem to do that. We’re not kids, this isn’t a game, this is war._ ] 

SHIRO: [ _If Zarkon wins, we won’t just lose the war, we’ll lose Earth, we’ll lose freedom, and we’ll lose lives. Is that what you want?_ ]   
LANCE: Are you seriously asking me that?]   
Shiro didn’t reply to that. He just glared. 

Everyone watched with breaking hearts as Lance dropped his head and lifted a hand to wipe the tears from his face. [ _Look if you want me to apologise for my mistakes, I will. But I’m not taking the blame for everyone else anymore. So sorry, or whatever, but I’m tired and I need a shower and sleep._ ]  
Lance made to step away, but Shiro grabbed him. Lance shook it off. [ _I’m tired Shiro. So just… just save it for now, okay?_ ] And he was walking away, no apology, no attempt to patch the growing rift between them. 

Pidge was the first to move, stopping the recording for the moment, all eyes on the Leader who pointedly kept his back to them. 

“Shiro.” Hunk was the first to speak, his voice icy cold, face emotionless. Shiro turned, matching the expression, apart from red eyes and softer features. “I told you I didn’t want you to hear it.”  
“And we needed to. You crossed a line.”  
“I know.”   
“You blamed him and made sure he knew that _you blamed him.”_  
“I know.” 

The short clipped answers riled Hunk’s back up even more. “No, you _don’t_ know. You don’t know how hard Lance works, how often he compares himself to Keith, how much he looks up to you.   
“You were his hero. I practically know everything about you from what he told me back at the Garrison, and there, right then,” he says, jabbing a finger in the direction of the empty screen, “his life-long hero just told him he wasn’t good enough, despite working hard, despite the fact he wasn’t chosen, this position was thrust upon him. Fuck, it was thrust upon all of us and we’re all doing our best. 

“But Lance doesn’t have the confidence. He hides it, doesn’t want anyone to think him weak and you didn’t think and blamed him for a problem that wasn’t the result of a mistake he made. Sure, he fought with Keith, that’s a daily ritual for them. But getting muted, getting blown up _wasn’t his choice!”_

Hunk was yelling, shouting loud, tears streaming down the big guys face, voice cracking. “He loves you guys, so, _so much,_ and that…. That had to be the worst way to tell him… _god that must’ve broke his heart.”_ Hunk wipes his eyes, his anger melting away quicker than rain washing away the snow.   
Shiro is by his side in three strides, a hand on his shoulder. “You know I don’t mean it. And know, what I said wasn’t appropriate and if I’d take it back I would. I’d tell you guys to hit me if it would make things better but it won’t. You can if you want… But right now, we need to focus on bringing Lance home.   
“I’m going to do everything in my power to bring him home and apologise. I’m going to make this better Hunk.” 

But things wouldn’t be that easy, they all knew that.   
Even mending the bonds Shiro had unknowingly broken.   
Hunk shook himself free of the man’s grip, giving the pair space. He didn’t hit him, so that was something, but there was a definitive divide between them.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Number five; do you have the next clip?” Coran asks. He’s stood beside the console, peering at the screen that’s been minimised by Pidge, who is running the feed at triple speed, trying to get a glimpse of anyone speaking to Lance.   
It’s painful to see no one talking to him, or noticing the pain on his face as he wanders the corridors. They’ve already seen him steal from Coran’s supply, the Doctor checking himself to find too many vials of _Eyre_ missing, as well as tubs of _Eleiryian_ which had him even more concerned. 

“That pink lemonade. Lance was drinking it on Torous,” Keith had said, recognising the liquid when Coran had held up the little capsule. “I thought it was just an energy boost thing, or something Hunk had given Lance. I didn’t realise it was medicine.”  
“Addictive medicine,” Coran bit angrily, “with serious side effects for Alteans. Although for Humans I wouldn’t know without seeing it firsthand.” There was copious curses for his own stupidity, and the stupidity of Lance who had been overdosing on pain medication.   
“It can’t be that bad,” Keith had said, but was quickly interrupted. “No no, Alteans are not allowed more than one _Decca-Drop_ a day. It causes extended sleep cycles and numbing of the nervous system. It was all but abandoned when we learned the technology of healing pods.”  
“And Lance has been consuming this _Eyre_ for how long?”   
“Who knows,” Coran said angrily. “I didn’t think he even knew what it was; I didn’t think he’d go snooping around. He’s not a child; I shouldn’t have to lock this in a cupboard.” Hunk comforted the man, noting the anger was simply to disguise the concern of just _what_ Lance was going through because of a mistake Coran had made. 

“If he was in pain, why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tell me he needed help, that he was hurt?”  
“Because he didn’t want us to worry.” 

Keith’s voice was a shadow of its usual strength, the words forced out like mince meat in a sausage machine. He’s staring at the mini-Lance, tiredness drawing at the corners of his mind. They always felt it after the Pods, and Keith was no different. But the fact that he was refusing to sleep until after they had watched all the clips and heard all the audio feeds was starting to work against his favour, despite the boy’s stubbornness. 

But he was still there, staring at the video-him, standing in the hangar where he was talking to video-Shiro. The others were with them, but ignored, the spot light was Lance’s, who had a faraway look on his face, and had been ultimately excluded from the earlier conversation.   
It would be an understating to say that everyone was feeling absolute _shit._

Coran sat at the console, zooming in thrice until the Blue, Red and Black Paladin’s took up most of the screen. The group departed, Keith climbing into the shuttle ready to take them to _Torous,_ and the separate audio feed crackled to life once more with the leader addressing Lance, who still wore a very faraway look. 

SHIRO: [ _Lance? Lance? LANCE!_ ]  
Lance’s head snapped up, eyes refocusing.   
SHIRO: [ _Are you listening?_ ]  
LANCE: [ _I got it. I’m ready to go._ ]  
This told them, he definitely hadn’t listened to Shiro asking Lance if he was okay, if he wanted to get rest while the Black Paladin took his place and went with Keith to Torous. 

SHIRO: [ _Lance, are you okay?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Yeah, I’m great._ ]   
Lance’s façade that remains almost perfect throughout the performance, the only slight twinge to his body when he turned just a little _too_ quickly. 

SHIRO: [ _Lance, I need to be able to trust you._ ]  
They see the tiniest motion of a flinch before the moment is smoothes over in a motion of Lance scratching at his armour. He remains uncharacteristically silent, but video-Shiro doesn’t register and keeps going. 

SHIRO: [ _We’ve all got our duties, so it will just be the two of you. And I know that you two have been at ends since yesterday morning, but everyone else is busy. The pair of you will be out of local Comms range for a while, until Coran contacts you. But he’ll be helping Pidge and Hunk with repairs, so he can’t be monitoring you while you’re on Torous._ ]

Keith is calling out, Lance ready to join him but Shiro grabs him.   
[ _Don’t fight with Keith,_ ] he said with stern voice, the words tinted with a warning. [ _While you’re out there, it will just be the two of you. I get that he gets on your nerves. I find his stubbornness difficult to deal with sometimes too._ ]Keith looks over at that, but Shiro looks nowhere but the screen, where he continues to admonish the boy who deserved none of the pain he was being dealt. [ _I get he is at fault too—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _Then maybe should be lecturing him instead of me._ ]   
He’s angry. Of course he’s angry, but it’s not the normal response he would give when being lectured. Side effect of the Eyre, or side effect of the team’s constant dismissal of him?

SHIRO: [ _You’re a Paladin Lance. You need to learn not to act so childish and accept that you are also to blame._ ]   
Shiro looks like he wants to fall through the floor and be swallowed by the abyss. Keith lets himself hope so for a split second too, but then he ignores it. Ignores Shiro as well. The man deserved his hatred, but he himself had played his part in Lance’s disappearance. 

SHIRO: [ _I have spoke to Keith already, just follow his lead, keep your heads low and we’ll see you back here in a couple of vargas._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Sure thing. See you when we get back._ ]   
Then where are you now dumbass?

Lance joins Keith in the pod after that, waving quickly as Shiro leaves and Keith manhandles the pod into flight.   
“You can skip this,” Keith says to whoever is listening. “We didn’t talk for the entire— or, no, we didn’t really talk until we hit Torus’s atmosphere.”  
Coran complies and they sit in silence until the wavelengths begin jumping once more. 

KEITH: [ _Wow, what the— What the quiznak was that about?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Sorry, I thought… I think I heard…_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Heard what?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _I guess it was nothing._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Just a nightmare then._ ]   
LANCE: [ _I don’t get nightmares._ ]   
KEITH: [ _I do._ ]   
Keith feels his cheeks heat, making a point of sipping at the empty cup for something to do. His neck burns from the gazes on him, but a firm cough, suspiciously Pidge, pulls the eyes away.   
The only reason Keith had opened up to Lance was because it was private. He didn’t think they’d ever hear this conversation, this very _private_ conversation between him and Lance. But they’d heard Shiro’s rants, and if anything that was said would help them find Lance then Keith will let them listen to this. But only because it might help find Lance.

[ _What?_ ] the him-version of recording says and everyone returns to listening. Keith is left to relive it.   
LANCE: [ _I was— I was just surprised you told me. I didn’t think you trusted me like that._ ]   
KEITH: [ _What do you mean?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _I mean, that is… well it is kind of a big deal to admit._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Not really._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Well, yeah, to me it is. Because anything like that, you wouldn’t tell anyone, let alone me because you think I’d make fun of you or something._ ]   
KEITH: [ _No you wouldn’t. You might dick about, but you’re serious when it matters and I know that personal shit like this won’t leave this shuttle. And I do trust you._ ] 

When Keith opts to sneak a glance at the others, they’re all beaming at him. “Oh fuck off,” he growls. “It shouldn’t need to be said. The fact it does is what’s worrying.”   
That sobers the smiles quicker than a gunshot. 

Keith and Lance’s conversation stops at the interruption of Coran, Pidge and Hunk with their requests, starting up again when Keith’s concerned voice calls out to the Blue, sat right next to him, but not responding. 

KEITH: [ _Are you seriously ignoring me? Lance? Are you listening?_ ]  
But then Lance is talking and he doesn’t sound as tired as earlier. Or maybe it’s just another act he’s putting on.   
LANCE: [ _Huh, what? Sorry, I must’ve dozed off._ ]   
LANCE: [ _So did they tell you what was needed?_ ]   
KEITH: [ _Yeah, Pidge and Hunk sent us scans of the equipment. They’re working on a programme that we can use to scan the stuff on Torous to make hunting for parts easier. I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure I’d be able to tell the difference between a phaser emitter and phaser assimilator._ ]  
LANCE: [ _A phaser emitter is the focus point for warp core energy, and helps direct the concentrated energy into kinetic and heat fusion as part of the main engine system, or redirected as weaponry. An assimilator dissipates collected energy in equal, controlled amounts. They’re used in the warp core and engines as emergency shut-down systems or to stop them from overheating or exploding when they’re turned on._ ]

Everyone blinked owlishly. Looks like Lance was hiding a lot more than just his pain. 

LANCE: [ _Ah, sorry. I guess I spent a lot of time watching Star Trek._ ]   
“That little traitor,” Pidge grumbled, their smile somewhat melancholic. 

Silence returned then, right up until they’re entering _Torus’s_ atmosphere and the boys work together to land the ship. Keith instructs Lance to help him as they fly through the atmosphere, searching the desolate planet for a place to land. Lance punches in the instructions for cloaking and then they’re landing on the planet’s surface. 

[ _Are we searching together, or splitting up?_ ] Keith’s voice asks while the real Keith grinds his teeth.   
LANCE: [ _It will be quicker if we split up. Unless you want me to hold your hand._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Fine, we’ll do this separately._ ] 

KEITH: [ _We’ll keep the Comms on, so don’t wander too far._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Don’t worry Mullet. We’ll get the stuff and be back on the ship in a couple hours. Just try and find something before I find it all first._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Let’s just stay focused, okay? The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get back._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Still, you got to keep up Keith or I’ll leave you behind._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Lance watch out!_ ]   
Keith remembered watching Lance step backwards off their make ship landing pad, watching the others tense. “It’s okay,” he tells them, “he was just playing a joke on me.” And sure enough, they hear the sound of Lance laughing gleefully; hear the sound of rushing air in his Comms before the release of his jetpack taking him safely to the surface. 

Keith wraps his arms around his knees and pulls them under his chin. He doesn’t want to hear what the pirates did to Lance. He doesn’t want to be here for this, to know that he was the closest, the only one there to help Lance and he had failed. 

KEITH: [ _Bastard._ ]   
LANCE: [ _C’mon Keithy-boy. You’ve got to have fun while you’re here. Loosen up a bit._ ]  
KEITH: [ _You think you’re so funny don’t you. Just grow up Lance; we’re not here to play games._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Yes yes I apologise your majesty._ ] 

They split up then, Coran hurrying through twenty eight Dobosh of muttering on Keith’s end and complete silence on Lance’s side. Static starts to become a constant companion after a full Varga, signifying the arrival of the pirates. Or at least their notice of the Paladins in their midst. 

LANCE: [ _Hey Keith, I found us a shield generator._ ]  
There’s a pause, Lance waiting for a reply. [ _Keith? Keith you there? Keith, if you’re there answer me._ ] And another pause filled only by static and the slow increase of Lance’s breathing.   
[ _If you’ve silenced me again, Keith I swear to god I’m going to cut off that Mullet and feed it to the Weblum._ ] 

They can only guess what he’s thinking; their fears confirmed when Lance’s voice breaks. [ _He’s…. he’s gone._ ] Panic begins to settle in. [ _He didn’t! It’s just…. It’s just…._ ] A spark of hope. [ _The towers! They’re messing with the transmission system._ ] 

[ _I am sure._ ] Lance said suddenly, his voice strong, but the way he speaks—  
[ _They wouldn’t leave me. They wouldn’t abandon me here._ ] 

It’s painful to hear Lance even considering they’d abandon him. But then Lance’s mind wasn’t in the right place at the moment. He wasn’t to blame for his insecurities. 

A trill beep interrupts, but it’s only the storm warning. Lance fades into silence, Keith sill calling out for the Blue that needs to get back to the ship. [ _Lance? C’mon the storms coming and we can head back to the ship before it strikes. I know we don’t have everything but there’s not much room left on the shuttle. Besides, we can’t do anything in the storm and it’ll save us time if we head back now._ ] No reply.   
KEITH: [ _Lance?_ ] Again silence. [ _Seriously? Are you blanking me? Because that’s real mature Lance._ ]  
Nothing. 

Keith started cursing, because that was apparently his fallback and would make everything better. Shiro raises his eyes at a few choice phrases _(Iverson’s saggy Y-fronts for one)_ , but what little amusement is brought sobers quickly.   
It’s like they’re watching a crappy, B-roll horror film, only they know something is about to happen but they don’t know exactly _what._  
Keith does. He’s already heard the screams that will haunt his nightmares for weeks. 

Coran ends up skipping some more, until they hear Lance, and the Altean is back tracking a little until they can find the right spot to start off at. 

LANCE: [ _Keith, can you hear me?_ ] He must’ve heard when Keith called back waveringly, the Blue’s voice filling with ease as he continues. [ _Oh thank god. If you can hear me, I’ve found a shield generator, but I’m still waiting out the sandstorm. We’re going to need the shuttle to haul it but you probably shouldn’t fly it until the storms blown over. It won’t be long now._ ] 

[ _I hope you can hear me,_ ] he says after a while, too much emotion dripping into his words, tight with fear as once more, silence takes him.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The sandstorm lasts for three more Vargas, the time spent with the boys periodically calling out for one another, only to hear nothing in return.

Lance left whatever shelter he had find (having been forced to due to the storm) and was already panting heavily into the Comms as he trekked in the hot sun of _Torus’s_ too-big sun.

It was then that Lance started talking to someone, other than Keith, who hadn’t heard the speech through the link due to the jammer. “It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to someone else,” Pidge said after boosting the feed, cleaning the background noise to try and identify a mumbling of words. But without anything to hear, they were still sceptical of Lance’s companion.   
Whoever it was, they stayed with Lance since leaving the shelter, walking with him as he began searching for Keith. 

LANCE: [ _Do you think he’s even noticed I’m missing._ ] 

LANCE: [ _Allura can pilot Blue if I’m not there,_ ] the words harsh and angry, before a sudden gasp and a small [ _Keith?_ ] He was still hiding his true feelings.   
But it’s not only Lance who was worried, but Allura too, who has thrown here eyes wide, hand clamping on her mouth as she listened to Lance nominate her as his replacement. _What had she done?_

No one else noticed the Princess’s distress as the feed flickered and noise filled the room. Lance is calling out for Keith again, grumbling something about “summit” and “interference.” But he hears nothing and fear joins Lance in his decent back down the rubble mountain. [ _No? If they haven’t forgotten me, then how do you explain the silence? Neither Keith or the ship is showing up on the scanner and I’ve just climbed the bloody junk pile to see if it was the towers, and guess what. Still no Keith. Still no ship._ ]   
Anger too, if his tone is anything to go by. [ _He’s gone. He fucked off and left me here. He’s gone and he’s not coming back…_ ] His voice cracked on the last few words. 

[ _What did I do wrong?_ ] Lance whispered, his pain reflecting in the faces of the Paladins that are left with nothing left but to listen at the truth that fills the boy’s heart. [ _They can’t ask anymore because they’ve abandoned me._ ]   
Even if they can’t see him, they know Lance is crying. 

[ _I mean… they can’t have,_ ] Lance says, tone changed to hope, but its weak. He knows it. They know it.   
[ _I’m a Paladin. They can’t just chuck me off the team because… because…_ ]  
They all hear the static, all hear Keith, who has finally heard the Blue Paladin. [ _Lance? Can you hear me?_ ]  
But Lance doesn’t respond to him. He’s still caught in his self-doubt, spiralling down, quicker and quicker.   
[ _I am needed. They can’t just abandon me._ ]

“Guys…” Keith said slowly. His mouth moves at first, no sound, but he catches himself and forces out the words. “He’s talking to himself.”   
Then the shock hits him harder. Lance is talking to himself, because no one else will listen. Because Lance doesn’t want to burden anyone else, or reveal that he thinks himself not worthy as Paladin. 

Keith’s voice snatches their attention, his voice filled with fear.   
KEITH: [ _Lance! Lance can you hear me? Lance, you’re in danger!_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith, Keith where are you?_ ]

It’s starting. This is when Lance gets caught. And all they can do it listen. 

KEITH: [ _Lance get out of there— oh fuck!_ ] Thunderous crashes jump from Keith’s feed, his curses shouted out loud, and there’s Lance, calling back. 

LANCE: [ _Keith! I can hear you, where are you?_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Lance there’s someone following you. Keep running, I’m coming. Try and get higher. I’m coming now._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith you’re breaking up buddy, speak slower._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Run Lance RUN! THEY’VE FOUND YOU!_ ]

Lance is yelling, Keith is shouting. Allura has jumped to her feet, ready to fight, Hunk and Shiro beside her.   
The Red Paladin is on his chair, burying his head in his hands, trying to block out the sound of Lance screaming for him, begging for his help. He’d been _so close_ and he’d let Lance down. 

LANCE: [ _Keith? Keith!_ ]   
KEITH: [ _Lance?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Help._ ]   
And he’s screaming, choking on noise to the dark laughter of unknowns that fill the silence and all Keith can do is scream and scream, beginning Lance to talk to him, [ _Lance, answer me!_ ]   
“Turn it off,” Keith begs, his own voice still yelling, body enveloped by the same fear. But this time it’s worse, because he knows where the boy is. He knows who took him and that they’re hurting him and that he hadn’t been there to stop it. 

KEITH: [ _Lance answer me. Lance, Lance c’mon!_ ]  
LANCE: [ _—th?_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Lance! Lance I’m here buddy, where are you._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith?_ ]   
But before recording-Keith can answer, they hears another voice; angry and foreign. [ _Akola,_ ] it says, and again when Lance keeps calling out for the Red Paladin. A hiss of energy resounds and Keith yells out again, but Lance’s voice is silent. 

“Skip it,” Keith bites angrily, his body curling tighter to protect himself from the pain that surrounds him, torn between getting up and storming out or destroy the module so he doesn’t have to listen to the coming torture the pirates forced Lance to endure while Keith searched for his missing teammate. 

KEITH: [ _Lance, c’mon answer me, please!_ ]   
He knows they’re looking at him with pity but he doesn’t care.   
He hears his own voice break, hears the pleading and the curses that take him to the entrance of the cave and down into the belly of the beast. 

There’s echoing before Lance can be heard; the sounds of his helmet being removed and dark voices echoing into the open transmission link.   
[ _What junk is this?_ ]  
[ _I think they call this Armour._ ]  
[ _Bah! It’s no good is what it is. The Culm still got downed by Jo’fir’s gar._ ]  
Allura pulls back with a gasp, looking to Coran who simply raises a hand to quieten her. “I know Princess. I know.”  
“Know what?” But Keith shuts Shiro up with a hiss of air. He hadn’t heard these Aliens speak in what felt like forever, but that hate he felt towards them was still real. Very much real. 

[ _You think I could stab him and the Armour would deflect the blade._ ]  
[ _I don’t know? Do it. Besides, I think Ovule wants to kill him anyway._ ]

Pidge lets out a shriek, covered with their hands at the thought. 

[ _Wait, he’s the Chief’s prize? Then ‘whet,’ I’m not touching him. Chief will kill me if I do anything to him._ ]  
[ _We could get Garecht to do it. He seems to think the Culm is his._ ]  
[ _At least Ovule might give him a good beating for us to watch._ ]

There’s shuffling and the voices die down to idle chatter in the background. It’s the only comfort the Paladins have that they’re not hurting Lance, and they take it. Only Keith feels the dread, counting down the seconds until the fighting starts. 

Lance begins to groan, only just heard from where his helmet has been taken. He’s been stripped of his upper armour as well, but Keith doesn’t think the team needs detail on Lance’s current predicament. 

The boy’s coughing alerts his captures. [ _He’s awake._ ]   
Footsteps sound and Keith closes his eyes, wishing he can’t see the aliens in his memory, watching as one stands over Lance, a weapon under his chin, forcing it up to reveal his neck. They hear laughter, and then [ _Go on Jo’fir. Do it again._ ]

The Paladins look to Keith for details, but he bites his bottom lip and says nothing. They’ll figure it for themselves sooner or later. 

[ _Why bother It’s just a ‘Culm.’ Throw him to the Kokachet and be done with it._ ]   
[ _Oh come on Jo’fir. We can have a little fun before we kill him._ ]   
The words send shudders through Keith but he ignores it. 

[ _No. Jo’fir cannot kill the Culm. Garecht found it, Garecht keep it._ ]  
[ _Oh, are you sure Garecht. Because I’m pretty sure it was Toil on watch._ ] 

Keith’s auditory frequency begins to spike, telling the team that it is now that the Red Paladin has found the Pirates, lying in wait until he can save Lance.   
Shiro watches him, an unreadable expression on his face at the understanding that Keith had lied to him about the truth of the mission.   
Whatever. Not like it would’ve changed what had happened. 

Lance whispers something, but his words are masked by the alien’s. [ _Culm is Garecht’s prize. Garecht keep,_ ] it says, loud, right next to Lance who is helpless. Keith knows he’s bound, barely able to breathe from the pain that they’ve inflicted on him, still disorientated as he wakes from unconsciousness. 

Noise. Lance groaning then he’s coughing, choking. He retches and no one needs Keith to tell them what the splatter sound is. 

[ _Garecht’s Culm is broken._ ]  
More noise, but nothing more to reveal what was happening than the odd hints given from the audio feed. They’re stuck listening to the abuse, mouths left open in horror when Keith explains with a simple “he kicked him in the face.” Because Keith can remember it all, remember it in painful clarity and he fucking hates it. 

[ _Perhaps not as weak as I thought,_ ] says a new voice.   
And then it’s Lance. [ _I’m not weak._ ]   
His voice is a low, threatening tone, similar to the one the alien used. It didn’t help Lance, but it gives the others comfort and that’s enough for the moment. 

[ _You’re a tough one aren’t you._ ]   
LANCE: [ _You don’t know me._ ] The backchat earns him a slap across the face, heard clear in the resounding sting. The force of it sends Lance crashing back to the floor in a bout of coughing fits, spitting and spluttering on the air he’s choking on.  
They can hear the aliens laughing at him again. 

Lance is throwing up again, the sound just as painful to the sound of the kicks sent his way.   
[ _Broken, broken,_ ] one alien chirps before the sound of Keith’s cursing and more whimpers of pain as Lance is booted in the face again. 

Lance tells the frog to [ _piss off_ ] and it gets him another kick. Lance obviously isn’t one to pick up on hints and tells them to [ _piss off_ ] again.  
It’s only the same two curse words, but all the humans are grinning. Allura and Coran are confused, but there strength in Lance’s voice and they know he hasn’t give up fighting. They grin too. 

Lance isn’t kicked again; the aliens too busy starting an argument between themselves. At least their attention is off of the Blue Paladin. 

[ _He’s not broken Garecht. Jo’fir just thought the Culm could handle the power of his Gar._ ]   
[ _So what? You said he was Human, Ovule and we’ve all heard of them at least once; furless, small little aliens that are suddenly battling Zarkon on his doorstep for the freedom of the galaxies. I was a little curious of his strength. Frankly, I’m disappointed. I was expecting a fight at least._ ] 

The words are cut off, the sound of Lance suddenly gasping for air. Keith makes a noise in the back of his throat, the others turning to him for answers but the laughter silences them. It’s horrible, like claws dragging over their skin and Hunk is crushing his ears under his palms. 

LANCE: [ _Put me down._ ] Which explains that they’re manhandling the boy.   
Of course he’s ignored.

[ _He’s stronger than we think. The damn thing reeks of Sugkie. Tastes of it too._ ]   
Coran paled. “What is it?” Keith asked, but the man shook his head. He simply mouthed _“after.”_

[ _And he’s still acting like that?_ ] It’s the other alien, the one that had challenged Lance with his weapon. Or ambushed him and just wanted to see if Lance could hold out against the electric currents.   
[ _Damn. I take back what I said, the Human is stronger than I thought._ ]   
[ _Not in strength though._ ] 

Lance is dropped, they hear him gasping for air.   
[ _Gereen made a bad choice in choosing you,_ ] they hear an alien tell Lance. [ _You’re physically weak. Although, if you got away from him, I can’t say that really._ ]  
“Get away from who? Who chose him?” Shiro asks, but no one has the answers. Not even Lance, who whimpers from pain for god only knows the reason. The aliens are hurting him obviously, but without the visual feed, they can’t tell.   
It’s hard to tell if it’s better if they can or can’t see. Keith already knows what happened, but he’s not sure if that’s better than what the other’s imagination is making them see. 

[ _Interesting._ ]  
[ _Not fair, not fair,_ ] one alien says, continuing to grous in annoyance, kicking off in another tantrum. [ _Gereen can’t have Garecht’s prize. Garecht found him. Garecht keeps him._ ] It’s his turn to cry out, earning a bout of laughter to fill the room.   
[ _You don’t get him Garecht. And neither will Gereen. No. I think I’ll keep this one for myself._ ] 

It’s painful to hear, but what else can they do. Pidge tears themselves from Hunk, dumping themselves in their chair as Lance keeps coughing. They’re checking their programming, to see if it’s located Lance’s stolen shuttle, or at least predicted his path.   
Whatever results light up their screen aren’t good enough and Pidge sets the programme to run again, just as Lance’s voice cuts the sound of the aliens’ laughter. It’s soft, like a whisper despite the abuse he’s gone through already.   
LANCE: [ _How?_ ] He’s talking to himself again. Amidst coughing and throwing up, he mumbles to himself in idle conversation. 

[ _Don’t die Human. You’re no use to me dead,_ ] a dark voice sounds, but Lance is too busy talking himself to pay heed.   
LANCE: [ _Not badly._ ] 

The quiet stretches out as Lance controls his breathing. Keith is confused by Lance’s words, like he’s answering a question, not just giving himself a little pep talk. 

“I don’t think he’s talking to himself.”  
“What do you mean,” Allura asks, just as Lance does. [ _What do you mean?_ ]

“I mean, he is, but… _not.”_ Keith doesn’t know how to explain it really, thinking how to tell everyone what he means. “He’s talking to himself but, it’s like he’s talking to someone else. Like he can see someone else. Like he thinks there is someone else there.”

As Keith speaks, Lance starts laughing. They look up to the lines that jump with his words. [ _Nothing. Not really,_ ] and [ _Am I not allowed to?_ ]  
“See,” Keith says. “He’s talking to—”  
LANCE: [ _Of course I am. I’m talking to an imaginary being._ ]   
Which proves Keith’s theory. But he’s not happy about it. 

“Wait, can he actually see someone?”  
“If the denizen didn’t lie, yes,” Coran said softly, looking as shit as Keith felt. Fearful too. He paused the audio feed, his usual chipper voice solemn. They were all solemn. It wasn’t a bloody party. 

“One mentioned _Sugkie._ It’s a drug, an old drug, mind you, that caused a bit of a problem several thousand years ago. At first it was used in medicine because of its ability to numb the body. But too much numbed the mind, making the participant go into a meditative state.” There was bitterness in Coran’s voice when he spoke, explaining to them all, even Allura who didn’t know of this _“Sugkie.”_

“The side effects weren’t all that common, but then came scientists and others who strained the drug so that the side effect was sure in a large enough dose.”   
“But Lance isn’t all out of it,” Pidge points out. “Then maybe he hasn’t had a large enough dose, although if the alien can smell it on him he must have. And we don’t even know when Lance was drugged.”  
“On _Torous?”_ Hunk asks but Coran shakes his head. “The effects take a while to integrate themselves into the nerves’ system. They’re much like the Olkarion technology in the way that their coding won’t let the meditative state take effect until the mind has been warped by words.”  
“Words?” 

“Words,” Coran repeats. _“Sugkie_ numbs the mind and the senses, opening the host up to brainwashing, usually through repeated phrases or repetitive words.   
“When this was found out, many planets employed it interrogation purposes, meaning the host would speak without torture. But after a while, too much _Sugkie_ would leave them mindless ghosts.” 

Coran scowls again, his hand curling into a fist, breaking his gaze with the Paladins. “It was used to keep races dull and easy to manipulate. Slaves were drugged upon capture and they wouldn’t ever think of leaving as long as the dose was constant, until their minds melted away and _Skulks_ were left.” 

Keith felt his stomach twist for a different reason. “So what we saw the Trigamon inject Lance with…”  
“Sugkie. Most likely. And they’ve been dosing him while they’ve been here, under our very noses.”   
“But they didn’t take him,” Hunk says, his voice small, eyes wide and crying once again. “They didn’t take him they just drugged him and left him. So why is he gone?” 

“Me.” 

Heads turn to Shiro. “Me. What I said. I kept on at him, again and again and it pushed—”  
“We don’t know that—”  
 _“Bullshit!”_

Allura reeled back, surprised. “If we’re sure Lance was drugged, then there’s me drilling him every chance I speak to him then of course it’s me.” But Allura is shaking her head. “You talked to him twice before the mission to _Torous._ Did you lecture him again afterwards?”  
Shiro says nothing but Allura already knows the answer. “No, you didn’t, you said to give him space as soon as he left with Coran to enter the cryo-pod. No one gave him a hard time.” 

“So what made him leave?”  
“That’s what we’re here to learn.”


	13. A Want To Be Educated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PART THREE: Lance is missing and the crew are left searching. But first, Pidge figures out a way to find out what Lance has been doing for the past few days. And the crew it heartbroken to find out what the Castle Recordings find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And ANOTHER review chapter and the key is the same, so [box brackets] is the feed. “Speech marks” is happening in real time.
> 
> Last Review chapter guys, sorry they're so long x

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

Lance’s hallucination was a side effect of the _Sugkie_ too, combining badly to his overdosing of _Eyre._ It wasn’t something they liked to think about, but as they listened to Lance lay in the cave of _Torous,_ they realised just how desperate Lance had been to talk to someone that his mind had conjured a friend for him.   
But it’s not too long until the hallucination and Lance venture down darker roads, shown by the fear of not being good enough, thoughts driven from Shiro’s lectures.   
[ _I don’t want to go with them._ ] The pirates. But his words mean that he has considers it. It is still a possibility, even if he doesn’t like it. But even Pidge can’t track the Pirates, so they know Lance hasn’t been able to. 

LANCE: [ _Keith._ ]   
The Red Paladin raises his head at his own name. 

LANCE: [ _Keith’s here. I called out to him; I spoke to him before they took me. He’s still on Torous. He didn’t leave me. He should be coming to find me._ ] There’s rattling, and movement, before Lance keeps talking, his voice stronger now. 

[ _It doesn’t matter if I’m a place holder. They haven’t replaced me yet. They still need me to fly Blue and I will. I’ll fight alongside them until they ask me to step down._ ]

That’s the truth of the matter for Lance. That’s what they think of him. A _“place holder.”_  
It’s not true, but the fact that Lance believes it is what is important. They’ve let him think that, unknowingly so, but then there must’ve been something said that started all of… _this._  
Lance didn’t just wake up one morning deciding the world hated him. 

[ _–But until then, I am a paladin of Voltron and I will fight those that threaten others. And that includes them._ ]

It wasn’t _“until anything.”_ Lance would be a Paladin until he quit of his own volition, or the war with the Galra ended, or… _No. Keith wouldn’t think about Lance dying. That was absurd, it was—_

LANCE: [ _Ovule is our target._ ]   
He’s readying himself to fight his way out; not knowing Keith is in the cave with him, waiting for the perfect time to strike. 

And before anyone can speak, the Comms screamed noise.   
At first it’s a foreign cry of pain. Then it’s shrieks and curses and screaming, with Keith shouting over all of it.   
KEITH: [ _NO! Lance keep fighting!_ ]   
There’s too much sound to pull words from it. But it doesn’t matter. Keith is fighting alongside Lance. They’re fighting their way out, fighting their way to _home._

Gun fire, shouting. Keith is laughing. Lance cried out.

KEITH: [ _Lance, get up, we’re leaving. Lance look out!_ ]   
LANCE: [ _I can’t—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Lance!_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith no!_ ]  
[ _You're not going anywhere,_ ] the aliens curse and Lance is crying out, Keith remembering as they grab him and try to drag him away, dragging him from Keith’s side, back towards the tunnel. [ _LANCE!_ ]

More yelling, more gunfire. Lance screaming for Keith, Keith crying out in pain as he’s beaten to the floor, too stubborn to fall, urging the aliens to raise their heels and kick Keith until he crumples to the floor.   
LANCE: [ _Keith NO!_ ]  
And he’s calling out for to another, blind in panic, forgetting the creature does not exist. [ _Help him! Ignore me, you have to help him!_ ]

Lance’s guttural cry bleeds in their ears, listening to the pure rage as he demands Keith be released. He wasn’t, of course, but he has their attention enough that when the sound of Keith’s sword slicing through the air, the pained cries of aliens follow.   
The paladins are cursed, but they’re together, Lance’s voice coming clear through Keith’s Comms from the way that Lance is leaning against him. He’s obviously not under the effects of Sugkie, but something else as he starts to joke with the Red in the middle of the fire fight. 

KEITH: [ _We have to go._ ]   
LANCE: [ _You know, I was fancying a picnic. We’re in no rush._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Well I’m not up for a picnic. It’s not my style._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Too mainstream for a first date?_ ]   
KEITH: [ _How about we discuss this later? Over dinner or something._ ]   
LANCE: [ _Alright Mullet, that’s a deal._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Now get going!_ ] 

Yeah this was definitely the usually flirty-Lance. No mind control here.   
Although, the fact he was flirting with Keith raised eyebrows. Keith gave them all a good hard glare but no one said anything. They didn’t drop their knowing smirks though. 

Not until Lance cried out and Keith is telling him to get up and run. They hear the Blue’s blaster go off, hear lasers hit their targets.   
KEITH: [ _Lance I’ve got them, just go!_ ] 

Suddenly there’s explosions. Keith explains the pirate ship is firing on them, listening as Lance tries to sacrifice himself for the Red’s sake. [ _Go,_ ] he keeps saying, Keith remembering the firm way Lance’s smirk sits on his lips as he shoves him towards the pod, just a little too far from their reach as the pirates close in around them.   
LANCE: [ _Keith, get going. You can’t stay here. Get to the shuttle and go._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Now’s not the time to play hero._ ] 

The voices shout, Keith cursing them, daring them to come forward. One must because they hear the clash of swords, the dark voice laughing at the [ _pathetic little human._ ]  
LANCE: [ _Keith!_ ]   
[ _This chiarecht is mine! Take the Blue, but I want him alive._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Over my dead body!_ ]

Swords clash, insults are thrown but Keith is yelling orders to Lance and they’re running before the aliens can deliver a killing blow.   
KEITH: [ _Lance, go! NOW!_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Keith wait! I can’t… I can’t—_ ] 

The paladins hear the thrust of the engines, hear the missile explode somewhere behind as the nitro boost takes Keith and Lance up, up into _Torus’s_ atmosphere. 

Whatever tension filled the bridge quickly dissipated at the sound of Keith laughing, gleeful little [ _thank fuck for nitro_ ] making even the Red smile. He had saved Lance. With a barely formed plan and no backup, he’d gotten in and got Lance out.  
Lance is laughing too, exhaustion twisting the sound until they die down softly, Keith calling out for Allura for a portal, but unable to reach her due to the Pirate’s jammers. 

KEITH: [ _That was scary, huh?_ ]  
[ _I’ll say. I think I’ll be happy if I never see that planet again._ ]   
[ _Any time in this lifetime will be too soon,_ ] Keith agreed, the boys laughing together, just waiting until the adrenaline leaves their systems. 

LANCE: [ _Hey Keith._ ] When Keith doesn’t answer, Lance continues. [ _It’s not that bad. Just a little theatre make up, nothing more._ ] Oh yeah, Keith had finally seen the damage.   
“Liar,” Hunk hissed angrily, but he falls into silence, letting Pidge comfort him where they sit close to one another near the Green’s chair. 

LANCE: [ _Keith, honestly, it doesn’t hurt. Okay, maybe it does, just a little bit, but it’s not as bad as it looks. I’ve been through worse, hell, we’ve all been through worse._ ]   
There’s noise, clinking of glass and Keith kicks himself as he realised he sat and watched as Lance continued to overdose on the “pink lemonade.” 

LANCE: [ _We’re both fine—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _Define fine—_ ]  
[ _We’re both fine,_ ] Lance repeated, his words steady. [ _You’re fine, I’m fine and that is all that matters. We’re both fine and that is all they need to know._ ]   
KEITH: [ _They? Who’s they?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _The team._ ] 

Shiro shot the Red Paladin a look. “I told you. He told me to keep it a secret,” he shrugged. And because he had thought that was what was best, he had.   
Hindsight is a bitch. 

KEITH: [ _The team? You mean you don’t want to tell them—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _No I don’t—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _But how will you explain—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _My injuries? The aliens. They’re pirates. They jumped us when we split up, but that’s all the truth we tell them. I didn’t get captured or kidnapped or beaten up—_ ]  
KEITH: [ _But you did—_ ]  
[ _Keith just listen to me!_ ] Lance is angry, his voice filled with the same emotion he had used back in the cave. [ _We can’t go back and tell the team that I got kidnapped and that you killed aliens trying to get me out. We’re protectors of the Universe against the Galra, and yes against threats like the pirates, but we don’t kill.  
The whole reason I can sleep at night is because when we fight the Galra, I know that practically eighty percent of the time they’re just robots, and not actual living beings, just programmed toasters armed with laser guns. And the cats we do end up fighting don’t get killed because we’ve usually managed to defeat them before they join the fight, or they retreat, or… or heck, I don’t know, but I just know that we don’t kill them._] 

[ _You didn’t kill anyone. I didn’t get captured. We were separated to make the mission faster, got caught up in a sandstorm and fell into an ambush. We got the parts we needed and we got away. End of story.  
If they ask questions, just don’t tell them anything that will make them think we can’t work together. I can’t keep causing more problems._] 

The team look angry again, but it’s just a mask to hide their hurt. Lance truly thought they thought less of him. Enough that he forced himself to endure the pain of the fissure in his back. _The idiot._

A beeping signal alerts an incoming message, Pidge’s voice the one they hear first. [ _Hey guys nice to see you’re— Woah, Lance are you alright? What happened?_ ]   
LANCE: [ _Just a little run in with space pirates. We had to leave behind the shield generator, but we’ve got everything else._ ]   
[ _Space pirates? You mean the same—?_ ]  
LANCE: [ _No idea, but seems like they’ve got a grudge against Voltron. You mind opening the hangar door? We’re two clicks out._ ]   
[ _Sure thing, meet you there. Do you need Coran to start warming up a healing pod?_ ]  
LANCE: [ _Yeah, if you don’t mind. I could use some beauty sleep._ ]

A click cut’s Pidge’s feed off, Lance quickly readdressing Keith before they reach the Castle. [ _Keith, promise me you won’t say anything._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Lance—_ ]  
LANCE: [ _Promise me._ ]   
KEITH: [ _Alright, I promise._ ]

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

They’re not angry at Keith, or course not. Lance had asked him to keep a secret and he, respecting his teammate, had gone with what he thought best.  
So no, they didn’t blame him. But that didn’t stop them being angry at Lance’s decision.

“Oh god, I want to ring his skinny bloody neck,” Pidge hissed, skipping the return. They were all there, they knew that Lance had brushed them off, although now they realised the severity of what he was ignoring.   
“That’s not helping Pidge,” Shiro said, tone filtering into the “Dad Voice” he reserved for when the Space Kids were getting unruly. “No? Well it sure as hell helps right now. God if I could just get my hands on him—”  
“Well you can’t,” Keith snapped, just as bloody stressed as the lot of them. He’d rather be stuck back battling Zarkon for his life than where he was right now. 

Reviewing footage was only helping so much, but the reminder that they all blatantly ignored Lance was a harder feet to swallow, watching as he dismissed himself from Coran’s care and disappeared into his room.   
Pidge left the feed running, waiting for his appearance while Hunk tracked the location of all the Trigamon. They saw one put the space suits by the garbage disposal, but nothing more for the moment. 

After a Varga or two of staying in his room, Lance left it, heading along the corridor to no place in particular it seemed. Pacing was a particular pastime for those that couldn’t sleep, Lance’s path taking him to the lower halls. He stopped outside one door for a while, but instead of entering continued. He re-entered the infirmary, stole more supplies and shuffled back to his room, before anyone could find him _not_ resting. 

The Trigamons relatively behaved themselves whilst Lance slept, as if they knew they couldn’t get to their prize just yet. The waiting game continued until dinner. As the team and their “guests” ate in the dining hall, Lance emerged, fully dressed, from his room, looking worse of wear, as if he hadn’t slept at all. Coran suspected he hadn’t.   
Overuse of Eyre may have caused it, meaning the effects of the coma-like state Alteans experienced was reversed to extended periods of no sleep for Humans. 

He turns back for a moment, voice clear. [ _I didn’t think you would join me._ ] Then he’s reaching out, a hand resting on nothing. [ _Thanks._ ]   
He continues on in silence. Yet Lance can’t seem to stop himself from turning back towards the rooms, as if he’s torn between looking for his teammates. He’s caught up in his mind, head turning as if he hears his name called, the dazed look of day dreaming wiped from his features. [ _Yeah, you’re right._ ] Because he’s talking to his hallucination.

Lance walks some more, feet letting them lead wherever, looping over as he wanders nowhere in particular. He’d outside the door in the lower halls again, then he’s walking past the training deck. By the time he’s outside the dining hall, the Paladins have already retired to their dorms, the Trigamon claiming a room on the level just below that.   
Except for three, that have gone to hunt for the Blue Paladin. They find him stood in a corridor. He’d stopped there, eyes glazed over, body almost limp as his mind zoned out, allowing the creatures to walk up and drug him again. An injection to the back of his neck and he crumpled to the floor. There was no fit, no convulsing this time, and the Trigamon slunk back into the shadows as Lance pulled himself from the floor.   
[ _Help me up. We need to go to the infirmary._ ] 

They think he’s speaking to the Trigamon. But they make no move to approach; in fact they’re already on another level, scurrying back to their den like rats.   
Lance is on his feet, leaning against the wall, thanking no one in particular until they realise that it’s to his hallucination. He’s losing himself, quicker and quicker and no one had seen or heard that the boy needed help. 

Lance makes it, just barely, to the infirmary, collapsing on the floor after downing another vial of _Eyre,_ waking only to drag himself to the training deck.   
Outside, he stops. He’s arguing with his hallucination that seems to block his path. [ _Get out of the way. I need to train. I need to get stronger so I won’t be a burden again. I need to get stronger. What happened on Torous was my fault, and I ended up relying on Keith to get me out, even if I didn’t know he was coming to save me. I need to be able to save myself; I can’t keep relying on everyone else._ ]  
It’s hard to listen to. Harder because Lance isn’t there for Keith to tell him he’s wrong. He’s not weak. It was an ambush, it wasn’t his fault. 

[ _What is there to believe? It’s the truth. They’re all so strong, all so good at something, and I’m just me, struggling to keep up with them. If I stop, for even a second, I’m going to get left behind.  
I know they all don’t think I’m worthy to be a Paladin_]  
Allura is shaking her head. “It’s not true.”   
But Lance doesn’t believe that. 

[ _If I keep screwing up then they’re bound to replace me sooner rather than later, so yeah, I’ve got to get stronger. I have to put my all in, I’ve got to reach their level, I can’t slack, I can’t take things easy, we’re not kids, this isn’t a game, Lance this is war._ ] 

The boy stopped, eyes wide, mouthing the words that ring too true to Shiro’s. He looked like he was panicking, but the moment passed. He took a breath and tried again. 

[ _They can’t trust me at the moment. I keep screwing up. The cargo-ship, on Torous, god knows they think me and Keith can’t speak three words without wanting to kill one another. If I can train, I can get stronger and…_ ] He trailed off, fighting more than just his hallucination that won’t let him train. [ _I need to get stronger, so that no one else will have to put their lives on the line because of me._ ]

That is his true fear, Keith realises.   
Not that he’ll be replaced or shoved to the side. He fears making a mistake that will cause another to get hurt. Or worse, lose their life. 

Keith stared at the boy he thought he knew. He thought he knew Lance, funny, jokey, not really all that serious until he needed to be. At first, Keith thought him stupid and cowardly, thinking Lance to be ignorant and naïve when he cracked jokes through the mission. He thought it was because Lance didn’t know how to be serious, didn’t understand the situation that needed brains and thinking and concentration. Not jokes and puns and bubbling laughter.   
But then Keith came to understand him. Or thought he did. He thought he saw the smiles as reassurances to Hunk and Pidge, he thought the jokes were there not to mask his own cowardice, but to take the edge off of fear the others may have felt as they faced the Galra horde.   
He thought he understood Lance. But Keith was wrong. They were all wrong. 

Even Hunk and Pidge who had spent the most time with him, back at the Garrison while all he thought about was making Shiro proud and desperately searching for a way to find Shiro alive and well. Coran and Allura only knew Lance for a short time, but they were just as surprised to see the real face behind the mask, vastly different to Lance’s portrayed character. 

It seems Lance wins the fight against his companion, or himself, because he’s entering the training hall, verbal instructions his only words as the room warms up. Lance is more aware of his surroundings now, drawing out his bayard before he’s fully stepped into the training ring, calling out the start of the training regime.   
His motions are robotic yet with the fluidity of water; every movement precise and smooth that has Keith utterly entranced. No move, no feint or blow is wasted. He has perfect balance, perfect form as he rolls and dives away from the gladiators.   
When one blow crashes into his right thigh, Lance pulls back. But instead of calling out defeat, he forges through the pain, taking the combatant out with a triple shot to its face. 

The androids fall at his command, slow, stop and get back up when he wants to try moves again and again until they’re practically flawless. There’s no unnecessary talking and after three vargas, Lance has barely broke a sweat. How often did he do this? Just how advanced was he?   
_And he still thought himself lesser than them all?_

It is late at night when Lance sheathes his bayard and begins training hand-to-hand, his movements less sure, less precise, his body taking damage where punches and kicks break through his guard. Just when Hunk says he can’t watch anymore, Lance calls out for the end. His body can give no more and he retreats back to his room, blanking Coran, Shiro and Hunk who come knocking for him.   
They see Keith walk past the door, staring intently several times and even the mice squeaking outside his door, running around, making noise to try and draw the Blue Paladin out. 

But then comes the banquet, and while the team party and let themselves be distracted by the Trigamon, Lance brings himself from his room and finds himself outside the banquet hall. He looks in, watching them, but makes no move to join them. He wears a tired expression, sadness pulling at the corners of his mouth. He tucks himself into his hood and leaves them, returning to his room. 

The Trigamon’s distraction stretched well in the night and some of the following morning too. Sometime between midnight and very early morning the Aliens began to tire, settling down on the sofas in a giant snuggles pile. Shiro carried Pidge to their room, the other Paladins retiring as well, disappearing into their own quarters, just as the corridor lights began to illuminate, guiding a lonely sharpshooter to the training deck.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The team watched as Lance fell forward, his legs catching him before he could crumble into a tangle of limbs on the training deck. Hunk threw up his hands, watching as a gladiator’s blade cleaved downwards, sparking against the floor, right where Lance had been, just before he rolled away. They heard his panicked yell, [ _stop training programme,_ ] before letting himself collapse to the floor. He was breathing heavy, eyes closed.  
[ _Tired,_ ] he whispered, the recording only just picking the words out the gulping breaths, Lance inhaling air like a man who found water in the desert. [ _I can’t,_ ] he said, fighting with himself, the word a broken sob between gasps.

But the boy could and he knew that, struggling to his feet, body drenched in sweat, his face twisted as he body titled. He didn’t fall, but he wasn’t quite standing.   
He fell once, twice and didn’t rise afterwards, body succumbing to sheer exhaustion. But Lance’s sleep wasn’t peaceful and he woke periodically, calling out for an _“Anadón”_ every time he opened his eyes. His words, in his mother’s tongue, were lost to them, slurred and pulled by sleep as Lance drifted back off again. 

When Lance wakes, he doesn’t retire to his bedroom as he had the time before. Instead, he takes himself to the observation deck, seemingly oblivious to Keith and Shiro who enter, train, and leave all while the boy leans against a corner wall, hand caressing thin air and a soft voice the speaks.   
To Anadón. His hallucination. 

The day passes quickly, with the team kept from Lance. The Trigamon too. They hunt for him, but he’s not found in the nook of the observation deck and for that the team are thankful. 

The boy lets his body rest, his mind lost to reams of information stored in glass caches, pulled from little units in the observation deck. Anadón keeps his company and they talk. [ _It’s okay Anadón. I’m not tired._ ]   
They don’t know if he’s lying or not, but he looks at peace, just reading. “That explains it then,” Coran mutters, and they watch as Lance learns the secret to withdrawing another mark. He curses Coran for “babying them” before taking to the sparring ring just to try the voice commands that he’s found. The team watch as the gladiators act more programmed, their movements strategic.   
Of course Lance flies through the simulations with an almost bored expression, every now and again calling out to Anadón, or thanking him. 

When his movements began to get sloppy, Lance called an end to training and ransacked Coran’s Eyre supply. He found Eleiryian too and coated that on the skin he could find without removing his suit. “That foolish boy,” the doctor whispered, eyes watering as he watched the damage unknowingly inflicted. Lance was simply trying to bypass the pain, unknowingly dealing himself more damage with every vial downed, every administration of the gel that numbed his body and his mind. 

The real enemy here is Lance, destroying himself in an attempt to get stronger. He thinks he has something to prove, he thinks that just hammering through all the walls he builds to block himself will be enough. And maybe it would’ve been.   
But something made Lance leave, even as he excels in combat.

Hand to hand is his next opponent, cursing in misery as he thinks himself a failure, facing twenty six and only taking out three. Before he can be overrun, he barks out a command that stills the bots in their positions.  
Then he’s trying again, better, _stronger,_ laughing as he rolls far from his attackers. Then he abandons his task and draws his bayard. 

They all watch, baited breath, as a pulse radiates in the Blue Paladins’ hands, his bayard shaking. And suddenly it’s shifting its form and Lance holds his gar in the light, electricity arcing from its tip.   
A laugh causes him to lose focus and it disappears from him, but then it’s back, held out Just as a gladiator charges forward, Lance spearing the castle technology as electricity shot from the tip like a lightning bolt, the gar lighting up with Altean Energy. 

Lance let out a bark of laughter, pulling his gar from where he’d lodged it in the gladiator’s chest, lifting it up with a satisfied whoop of excitement.   
But something jarred him.   
The Bayard shone blue, Lance’s grip weakening as it morphed, the light like elastic, snapping back into the first mode, leaving Lance’s hand burning from the sudden rush of energy. He laughed again, but it was weaker, forced almost. He was unable to keep his grip on the handle as his Bayard clattered to the floor. 

[ _Blue, Blue I did it,_ ] Lance said excitedly, turning in the room as if she was there, his eyes searching. [ _Blue, I did it._ ] But Blue must’ve not been happy. Lance’s smile vanished, his words unsure. [ _B-Blue?_ ]   
He speaks as if she understands, his words dying on his lips. [ _It’s not, Blue, I know what I have to-_ ]

Blue’s disappointment is too much for him.   
The team hear her roar through the feed, remembering that this was what woke them all, remembering their own lions calling them from sleep as Blue and Lance fight inside his mind. 

The boy crumples to the floor, holding his head, ignoring the tears that stream down his face, the begging sobs for Blue to forgive him caught in his throat.   
[ _Please don’t fight._ ] Lance whimpered, pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to block out whatever he can hear. 

Keith sees himself on another screen, bursting out his room, nearly crashing into Shiro. Hunk is banging on Lance’s door, Pidge shoving him aside and the door is opening. Lance isn’t in there, but they don’t know that, and then they’re running to find him, spurred by the worry they share with their lions, concern for Blue who thunders in the hangar, roaring for someone to save her Paladin.   
_They failed her._

[ _I’m sorry Blue, I’m sorry, please stop. Stop fighting,_ ] Lance whimpers, knees buckling and he’s laid on the floor of the training deck, curling in around himself to block out the sounds in his mind. He tries to block out the sounds of Keith too, who has finally found the boy in pain, pulling at hands that try and block out sound, sight, _pain._

Pidge skips that too. They don’t need to listen to Lance brushing off help, so they don’t. They know now he doesn’t sleep; only waiting for the crowds to disperse before he’s in the training room, fighting, punching his way through horde after horde. The only rest he gets his when he passes out, then he’s up, fighting again, digging his own grave deeper and deeper, taking longer and longer to come up for air.   
Keith and Shiro force him to stop of course when they find him that morning, not hiding on the observation deck, but pinned beneath a spar bot, cursing and screaming because he can’t seem to get one move right, he’s fed up with calling out for the training regime to end.   
It’s Shiro who ends it, rushing over dragging Lance out from underneath the Gladiator, giving him a once-over to check that he was alright. There’s no questions, no lectures. Just space, because that’s what Keith and Shiro thought the boy wanted. 

They let him leave with no qualms, focused on themselves and their training while Lance wonders the corridors, slipping in and out of dissociative episodes that leave him stood, mindless, or crumpled to the floor, muttering to himself. It’s hard to watch, harder still when Lance walks numbly past Allura and Hunk who call out. But when Lance ignores them, they don’t follow and they don’t pester.   
_Hindsight was a bitch._

Lance’s wandering continues, taking him from the training hall, down to the lower corridors, to the bridge, the kitchen, the infirmary. Then finally, he’s in the entrance hall, seventeen floors above, staring down at the grand staircase sweeping between the first and third levels with a blank look on his face. Hunk lets out a distressed noise when he sits on the railing, his legs swinging over the drop.   
And then he’s talking, breaking their hearts with what he tells his companion. 

[ _Of course. I think I will always miss it. It is home after all. It’s where my family are._ ]

[ _Maybe. Once. But they’re not family anymore. Family cares for you. They don’t care for me, and not me for them. Not anymore._ ]

[ _I want to go home,_ ] Lance says, tears tracking lines down his face. [ _I want to go home._ ]

And they all are on their feet, watching as the boy drops his head, let’s go and his body is tilting forward—

[ _Paladin?_ ] 

It’s like all the lights turn on in the room. Their hearts in their chest, Keith’s fingers curling too tight, leaving little crescent marks in his skin as he watches Lance tumble back, back onto the balcony, on his feet, turning to see who has called to him.   
It is the three Trigamon. The Silver, Green and Blue. The ones that have been infecting him.   
[ _Paladin? Are you okay?_ ] the blue one asks fake concern in their voice because they _know,_ no he’s not alright, they’re doing this to him. 

[ _I’m sorry, I was watching the stars,_ ] Lance says, looking back up, as if he could actually see the stars. He can’t of course, but Lance doesn’t realise that.   
[ _You watch the stars from here?_ ] the silver Trigamon asks, looking up to the ceiling too. It ushers to the Green, and in the quickest or motions, it is behind Lance, the contraption in its furry paw, the needle pressed into Lance’s skin as he injects him with another dose of _Sugkie._ Lance doesn’t feel it, he won’t, he’s completely numb. [ _Not always. But here is quiet._ ] 

They’re satisfied with Lance’s response supposedly, talking with him, continuing even when he doesn’t talk back. They have to repeat themselves sometimes, but with every time, their creepy grins only grow.   
They continue this until noise distracts Lance and he looks over the balcony to where the other Trigamon make a show of leaving, thanking the Paladins and disguising the fact that three of their pack are not with them. 

[ _Will you join them?_ ]   
[ _No._ ] The answer is quick and blunt. Because no, Lance does not want to join them. 

[ _You don’t want to be with them?_ ]The Silver has the audacity to sound surprised. [ _They’re busy,_ ] Lance says, lying through his teeth. His anger builds, easy to see, dismissing himself quickly without turning back to the three that are not finished with him yet.   
[ _Tonight?_ ]  
[ _We’ll have to administer the rest of the dose. We can’t stick around longer than Nix’s moon cycle. Gereen will be growing impatient._ ]

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

When the team finally found Lance in the training hall, he’d already been fighting, and had taken down dozens of combatants by himself. The last one was from a horde of twenty, but now it was alone.

Lance executed moves with precise movement, making the motion of fighting the skilled bot child’s play. Perhaps it was for an Altean child, but when Keith turned to look at Allura and Coran, they both wore mixed expressions of awe and shock. And maybe a little fear. 

[ _Lance, what did I tell you about training alone!_ ] Shiro had been worried; they all were, thinking Lance was pushing himself too hard, too soon after Torous. They were right of course, but they hadn’t known then. 

[ _You told me not to._ ] Lance’s attitude was the first sign that all was not well, but they’d been blind to it. [ _Lance—_ ]  
[ _I want to train Shiro. You can’t keep stopping me. I’m healed already; never mind the cryo-chamber._ ] He thought they were only there to get in his way, thinking they didn’t want him to train because they didn’t want him strong   
[ _It’s not about stopping you; it’s about you pushing yourself. Training is good, and you’re getting better I can see that, just from that there. But, Lance you’re doing it by yourself. What if something happens? What if you’re knocked unconscious or your hurt yourself bad and no one is here to help you?_ ]  
[ _Keith trains by himself, and you never say anything to him about it._ ]   
[ _I trust Keith to be able to take care of himself._ ] 

Lance can’t hear the concern. He can’t tell that they’re only there to help him, they care about him, they love him.   
But it’s already too late. 

[ _Fine, you don’t trust me. What else do you want to get off your chest?_ ]

“Do we have to watch this again?” Keith asks, but Shiro points out neither Allura or Coran were present for the initial fight. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to Keith. We’re almost finished reviewing the feeds anyway.”   
The big guy was the first to excuse himself, mumbling an apology before he slipped out. Pidge hurried after him at a trot as the scene unfolded in harsh argument. 

[ _Don’t speak to him like that! Look, whatever’s up with you at the moment is your problem, but stop taking out on him. He’s just trying to help._ ]  
[ _Oh, and you are too?_ ] Lance growled, turning on Keith who had moved to stand up for Shiro. [ _You think, just because you think you know more than them that you know what’s going on. But then, I’ve bet you already told them. I bet you told them as soon as I turned my back, all of you, having a lovely little tea party without me while you talked about all my mistakes—_ ]   
[ _I didn’t say anything. You made me promise and I kept that promise. But then you clammed up and you didn’t say anything to anyone, so of course we’re going to worry about you—_ ]  
[ _Worry about me?_ ] Lance scoffed; his smile so obviously fake. It had always been fucking fake and why couldn’t they see that. Why could they see his true feelings?  
[ _Yes worry about you! These past few days have been stressful enough, and this is the third time me and Shiro have caught you in here when we all know you still need to heal properly. We even said, “don’t train until Coran has checked you over,” but you didn’t listen and you’re back here. Recklessness is meant to be my flaw Lance, not yours._ ]

And that was as much patience as Keith could manage, as he gave his own apologies and left the Bridge and the sounds of him and Lance fighting. The last time he saw him.   
And Lance had tried to kill him.


	14. A Want To Be Irreplaceable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is in pain, he has been for a long time. But now, he’s shown the Paladins his weakness, whether he meant to or not. And now, he hears their judgement. Voltron of course, are defenders of the universe. They can’t afford to have a weak link, a chink in the armour. And Lance? Well, Lance accepts the judgement. He brought it upon himself after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s back to Lance’ POV and OH GEEZ here comes the LANGST!!!

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

_It’s cold._

_I’m cold._

_I’m cold I’m cold I’m cold._

_I’m cold and I hurt and I… can’t see._

Lance tried to open his eyes, feeling a strange heaviness where vision should have been. He tried to lift his arms, to pull at the sleep mask covering his eyes, but the limb doesn’t want to seem to budge.   
Lance tries again, focusing on the tingling sensation that creeps down his shoulder. It’s odd. There’s no pressure keeping his arm down, _the thing just won’t listen to him and move!_

_Okay, start small,_ he thinks, desperate to banish the thoughts of panic. He can hear Ovule laughing, hear the dismissive sounds of Keith telling him they’ve left him to die. _They haven’t,_ he thinks again, holding onto the flicker of hope like an anchor to ground him. It’s weak, but it’s there.   
But it’s not strong enough and Lance knows it, feeling his mind slip into the numbing chill that drags his body. He gasped as a thousand tiny pricks of ice cold pain stabbed at every part of him they could touch, all over his skin and under it and inside him, pricking and stabbing at the flickering warmth of his still-beating heart.   
He heard noise beside him, the concentration of focusing as lost as his body felt, just limbs and bones, all the little threads tying him together lifeless as he remained crumpled, tucked in on himself, gasping for air like he’s run a marathon. He might as well have. He doesn’t remember. 

His body pressed in on itself, chest tightening as he struggled to breathe. It felt as though an iron bar had wrapped itself around his lungs, constricting them with every exhale, letting less and less air in every time. His head pulsed painful, like all the blood in his body had rushed there to escape the cold, the dull throb continuing to grow until he thought it would burst.   
Lance’s hands twitched from where they were pushed underneath his body and he couldn’t control it, he couldn’t breathe. A rush of something bubbled in him and spots danced in his vision as he tried to focus.

There’s a whispering in his brain that remains impressed he isn’t panicking. _I’m tired, I don’t have the energy,_ he supplies to the voices, choosing to grasp on what little brain capacity he could hold onto, turning it to his fingers. 

_Start small._

One by one, his fingers began to move. At first it was just a twitch, sent to each that Lance was trying to curl into a fist. But the more Lance concentrates, the more he allows himself to pour energy into the small movements, they begin to move. They’re stiff and they’re aching, but they’re moving.   
He plays a rhythm with them, feeling the warmth spread between the pads of his fingers, the motion getting easier with every repeated action. 

Okay, now the elbow.   
It comes up easier this time, the shoulder moves according to the brains wave and Lance can’t help but laugh when his own hand slaps him in the face. 

It is then that he realises there is nothing covering his eyes. His palm drags the heaviness away and he’s blinking upwards to a faint light in front of him. It flickers as his eyes focus. He doesn’t recognise where he is, yet he knows it is in the castle, surrounded by the familiar white floors, the same white walls and giant expanding mirrors of glass that break the pristine marble, showing a glistening purple nebulae surrounded by a blanket of stars.   
No wonder Lance hadn’t been able to recognise where he was. He was laid on the floor. The floor of the castle’s med bay, to be precise. 

Lance drags his head against the floor to look at the way his body awkwardly slumped. Behind him lay the pod, the vitrified glass still crystallised in places where the thaw had taken hold, too quick, too fast, releasing its ward and dumping him onto the cold, hard floor where he is left to wake from the lasting effects of sleep stasis for the purpose of healing him.   
_That explains the coldness,_ the boy thought to himself, noting that the chill is leaving his body, enough that definitive thoughts are finally making themselves known in his mind.   
They do, slow to begin with, and then it’s all rushing back at full force; the anger, the hatred, the fighting, the pain. Lance braces, waiting for that to come rushing back too. But it doesn’t. 

The floor is too painful to lie upon, and Lance is aware enough to pull himself into an upright position. It takes a lot more effort than he would let himself admit, and by the time his back is resting against the pod, his head has stopped spinning and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to hurl, Lance is completely exhausted. His face is also stinging from where he fell on it. _Twice._  
Lance is panting, but at least the cold is gone. So is the pain he realises; and he smiles.   
As his body thaws, so does his mind, and slowly thoughts begin to fill his strangely empty head space. 

It is then that another piece of the puzzle clicks into place and Lance is staring at the empty room, searching for the team. He can’t see them, can’t even hear them. Although, he thinks they were nearby earlier. He’s vaguely able to recall voices, but that could mean anything. And if they were here and they just left him—  
 _No._ If they were here, then he wouldn’t be on the floor, Lance decides, and turns his focus to trying to get into a more upright position. 

He’s more exhausted than normal. But then, being thrown onto the floor, waking up alone isn’t a normal way to wake from Cryo-sleep, and Lance is sure that there is something to do with the absent Paladins. Maybe the machine has kicked him out early for some reason or other. Especially if he still has Eyre in his system. But if he didn’t, then he shouldn’t be feeling this numb, this tired, _this…._

Lance lets his eyes search for Coran, who always stands vigil for the healing heroes, only when he spies the doctors’ terminal, he identifies its lack of their resident orange-moustached healer.  
A pang of _something_ echoes deep in Lance’s chest but he puts it down to a rude awakening.

_So, there are no Paladins and no Altean’s,_ he thinks, pressing himself against the pod again to push himself _up._ He’s on his feet now, and there’s no dizziness. He was expecting it, and was pleasantly surprised to find his body was now actually listening to him without its earlier refusal and blatant laziness.  
Lance is smiling. And then he spots Keith.

Keith is in his own cryo-pod to the left of Lance’s which remains open, still spilling out mist from where the thaw reaches deep inside the machine.

There’s nothing noticeably wrong with Keith as he remains frozen, eyes closed yet he doesn’t look peaceful. Lance doesn’t like it, stumbling towards him; a strangled cry of fear when his feet tangle and he’s reaching out for Keith to help him, like he came for him back on _Torous._  
“Keith! Keith wake up!” But it’s useless, Lance knows that, the logic speaking beneath layers of ice and confusion that grips him and holds him tight when he hammers his hands on Keith’s pod. Nothing.

Seeing him sends Lance’s mind back to their spar, their fight where he hurt Keith, he took out his anger on him without thinking about it. There’s no anger now, it remains only in his memory, replaced by fear as he hits his fist on the pod again. 

“Did I do this?” Because it doesn’t feel right.   
Yes Lance hurt Keith, but he didn’t think he had hurt him enough to force him into a pod. But then, no Lance _wasn’t_ thinking when they fought one another. He just wanted to prove him better, stronger, faster, _more._  
And he did. Now Lance is stronger, better, faster and he’s healed. And he’s hurt Keith who waits inside the cryogen chamber. 

But where is Coran, the Doctor that always waits with the Paladins while they heal, or Pidge or Hunk who can always be hovering as they tinker with this or that, their worry never letting them stay too far from friends as they heal.   
A voice asks if Lance is to blame. Or was it something else…  
 _Wait, did something happen?_ Was that why there was no crew, and they’re in danger, they’re in battle fighting. He wouldn’t know, there are no alarms in the castle after the initial proximity alert. The Comms wouldn’t be transmission ship-wide, only to the Bridge where Allura and Coran could help support the Paladins as they fought in their lions. But no Lance and no Keith meant it was only Hunk, Pidge and Shiro.   
Lance had to help them if he could.

The Blue Paladin forces himself on unsteady feet, managing not to stumble as he rushes out of the infirmary and into the waiting corridor wall opposite the door.   
He can’t keep his feet and slams into it, cursing the legs that make him act like a baby deer, just born and already trying to hop, skip, _run._ His legs feel too long, too gangly. His body doesn’t want to stay upright and he feels the world shift as the artificial gravity threatens to drag him to the floor.

“Blue? Blue are you there?” he asks, reaching out in his mind for the familiar flicker of light that warms him. But when he reaches out, he can’t find her.   
Panic surges within him. “Anadón? Anadón are you here? I can’t hear Blue!” But Anadón doesn’t appear, doesn’t call to him and Lance is alone in the castle, desperate to find out what has happened that kept the others from being there when he first awoke. 

Lance’s hand slips on the wall where he had been supporting himself, only managing to scrape his hand on a ledge and keep himself upright. His head pounds on the inside of his skull, like his brain wants to get out of this body and back into its real one. But this was _his_ body, and it _was_ going to listen to what Lance said.   
He took another step, slow, calculated. He was up, he was standing.   
And the corridor was tilting sideways. 

The Paladin resides himself to using the walls to manoeuvre himself along, hoping that the thaw will have left his body and his muscles would have gotten things figured out by the time he reached the elevator. They kind of did.   
Lance could stand unsupported, but there was a weakness to his legs that made his knees want to buckle and his ankles bend painfully inwards. _“Shit, shit, shit,”_ he cursed with every floor passed, hoping that this was all just one long, very bad dream that he would wake from any tick now.   
_But if it was a dream, then where was Anadón?_

“Anadón? Anadón are you here?” Lance called again for his companion, hoping that it was only the thaw that kept him at bay, and now that it was gone, his friend would be with him once more. He searched for shadows in his peripheral, turning his head quickly to catch a glimpse of the shadow-beast that had been by his side lately, there when he needed him, _whenever_ he needed him there.

But Lance remained alone as the elevator trundled upwards, eyes staring at the glowing lights on the walls, watching the customary flicker that joined the motion of rising to the upper levels.   
Slowly, but surely, the elevator took Lance up, to the tip of the ship to where the Bridge waited. “Coran? Allura?”   
Lance kept his feet as he rushed from the elevator, taking solace from the quiet, the lack of commands over the radios that didn’t resound from the bridge that lay before him. “Sh—,” But when Lance tried to call out, he failed to catch his breath and coughed.

_“How’s Lance?”_

The words were a blessing. Lance felt his chest fill with relief, his eyes tearing with emotion as he pushed himself closer, one bare foot in front of the other, the light from the open doorway calling him closer.   
He could hear the murmuring of a reply, the low baritone reverberating through Lance’s shaken mind as he struggles forward, a wave of dizziness pulling him to the floor. Again he’s on the floor, but the desperation to reach them is gone. It’s okay, they’re safe, they’re there, they’re waiting… 

“And?”   
It was Hunk, the familiar rumbling of his voice a comfort as it wraps warmly around Lance, carrying him to somewhere where there is no fear, to somewhere without the coldness creeping at his fingertips. 

But not quite. Because Hunk’s voice is clipped, it’s short and blunt with anger; an emotion Lance rarely sees on the loveable teddy bear he calls his friend.   
Hunk must’ve been really angry.   
The realisation stalls Lance’s feet and he’s not sure if he wants to climb to his feet and enter the bridge, wondering if this anger is for him. Was Hunk angry at _him?_

{ _What do you think?_ } 

Lance turned to the voice, his head whipping around face with a smile as he recognises who called out to him. 

Anadón was beside him in all his glory, sat against the far wall, his paws crossed in front of him, head raised as a tongue flickered between his teeth, tasting the air, the tooth-rotting sweetness of happiness that Lance felt when he saw his friend.   
His tail flicks back and forth, a sign of agitation that remains after Lance reaches out to smooth the feathers that stand up around the base of his neck. 

“Ana—”  
{ _Sssh, you want to hear what they’re saying, don’t you?_ } Anadón snaps lightly, narrowing all three eyes in the direction of the boy to quieten him quickly.   
Lance’s smile slips ever so slightly, his ear pricking up the sounds of more voices, but he’s too far away to make them out. He picks himself up, not aware just how easy it is as he steps forward, unintentionally creeping forward, focusing, trying to discern words from the mumbling.   
He was waiting for something. He didn’t know what the something was, but whatever it was, he needed it. 

It was the silence before the storm. 

“Not to be the bringer of bad news…”  
It’s Pidge. They speak softly, their words only just gracing Lance’s ears as he strains to hear if they speak of him like he fears. 

_At first it is only the gentle sounds of rain._

“But what if we _can’t_ fix this…”

Gentle drops of beloved water that rained from above, tinkering down upon the land, thirsted by drought. They fall to the dirt that is nothing but dry and itchy. The rivers and streams are only trenches of dust, the plants that line the embankment dying, wilted and weak as they’re starved of water. The edges of their once-green leaves are faded yellow and sickly, barely rising from the ground. Cracks run across the floor where the skin of the land can’t keep itself together.   
_Like the cracks in Lance’s mask he can’t keep together._

“—whatever it is. What if we can’t fix this, because there’s nothing to fix? What if, this is it?”   
Lance isn’t sure what they’re talking about, but that surging _something_ inside him won’t let him think it’s not about him. 

“What if there’s nothing wrong with Lance.”  
Ah. It is about him.

“What if this is him and he’s had enough and he’s… just _done?_ We all saw. He tried to kill Keith. He’s not on our side now—”  
“Pidge—”  
“No Hunk I mean it. You don’t just try and kill your best friend if you’re having a bad day. So yeah, we could all sit and chat about why he’s angry, why he wants to hurt us. But isn’t the damage already done?  
“What if something happens? Like right now or later. Because right now, we’re really vulnerable, like _really_ vulnerable. It’s not down to the fact we have two Paladins out of action in cryogen chambers, and yeah I know Keith is coming out in a couple of minutes, but Lance is not and even when he does, what happens when we need to fight?” Pidge continued, sharing a worry they all had. 

Lance feels his entire body jolt.   
He isn’t meant to be out the pod. Being released was an accident, a malfunction that coughed him up and spat him out. It didn’t want him, just like they didn’t want him.   
And they waited, until they knew that they wouldn’t be overheard as they discussed his importance. 

_The rain falls harder._  
The dirt is pulled together by the blessing of rain as it soaks into the earth. The river steals whatever it can and the riverbed becomes a stream of brown, murky water that claws its fingers into dry earth to pull out the life that is buried far beneath, hiding from the storm that will drown it. The plants can’t get enough, reaching up for the rain embracing all it can before the clouds move on and they’re left to dry and up and crack and grow weak.   
_Just as Lance feels himself grow weak, desperate not to let his façade wash away like water._

“Like, what if this is damage that can’t be undone with just talking. It was quick, granted, probably started since he and Keith fought during training, just before the pirate attack. And even then, Lance blew up at us because he blew up the ship— Okay, no, he didn’t, but he got angry because I shut him up, but he was fighting first and I was trying to be helpful and I am sorry,” Pidge said.   
No one stops them, because they agree. 

And Pidge continues, words tumbling from their mouth faster and faster, boundless uncertainty for Lance who can’t run, his legs won’t move he’s forced to listen.  
“But I mean if Lance wakes up and Zarkon appears out of the blue, or the pirates or Galra— Whatever. I just want to know, how are we going to form Voltron, _if_ we even can with Lance the way he is. It’s not just the fight with Keith, he’s kept himself away at the moment, he has been really distant—”  
“Pidge—”  
“Because honestly if we have to fight, I can’t see us winning at the moment with him all—”  
“Pidge—”  
“Silent and sulky and weird, because pulling that spear really fuc—”  
“PIDGE!”

Shiro’s shout cut the Green Paladin short but and Lance stumbled a few steps back from the ferocity. He was still reeling from what Pidge implied, choking at her final “sorry.” But Shiro’s outburst wasn’t enough to keep them quiet.  
“I didn’t want to say it, but it’s the truth. Even if Lance is awake, there’s no way he can keep fighting with us. He’s shown us that.”

_The rain is heavy._  
The sky darkens too quick, the billowing clouds threatening a tempest with winds to pull trees from their roots, the wind pulling the sea into waves that loom higher than the tallest mountains, taller than the sky itself. The wind screams as it tumbles across the earth, taking plants and rocks and debris far from its home. 

“We’re in danger right now, whether we want to admit it or not. We all know that Lance and Blue are fighting, or at least, they’re not compatible—” 

_They don’t want him._

“–even I could hear her pain but Lance didn’t stop. He kept going, like he couldn’t hear her, or… or _feel_ her.” 

_They don’t want him._

“Our lions could feel her pain and in turn we felt it. But Lance was oblivious. Does that mean she’s rejected him?”   
“Or he rejected her,” Pidge added. They spoke of the fears that Lance had always carried deep inside himself, a secret never to be shared. He had hoped it was only him he thoughts so, only him who saw the darkness inside him that sheltered such fears. It was terrifying to know the others felt the same.   
_They don’t want him._

{ _Osito?_ }

Lance looks up, eyes hurting but dry, his body not ready to function right as he listens to the team discuss his importance, and whether or not they really want. Him. They don’t, he realises that now—

{ _Osito, I’m here for you._ } 

“It is a serious problem,” Allura agreed, and Lance could just _see_ the understanding on her face. 

His feet took him closer, Anadón beside him every tiny step of the way. His body met the light, his head peering around the corner enough to catch a glimpse of the Paladins gathered near Coran’s main console, save for Pidge who was sat with their head down, legs folded beneath them to support their laptop, powered down but still open. 

Allura was dressed in her formal Altean attire, towering tall over everyone who remained in full armour, her eyes cast to the stars.   
Coran looks paler than usual, his eyes deliberately focused away from searching eyes. 

Lance watches.   
No one wants to speak. No one moves to do so. 

The silence lays on his skin like poison. It soaked into his body, seeping deep into his blood. It paralyzed him, his legs locking when instinct told him to _run. He didn’t want to hear this. He shouldn’t be here.  
He didn’t want to hear this. _

The void in his mind stretched out, the black cliff stretching up, further and further from the chasm of shadows and darkness. He could see his friends; see the ones that had unintentionally carved out the chasm that stood before them as they stood before it, looking down to the void, to the darkness that swallowed the earth far below.   
Lance could see the edge. He wasn’t standing, he wasn’t teetering.   
_He was hanging on for dear life._

Each of them turn, one by one, staring at Lance with dead eyes and dead faces, blank and unfeeling when eyes settled on him, he who clung to the cliff with bleeding fingers. 

Pidge’s eyes fall to the hands that hold on, that are holding on, staring at them with the weariness of one who is fatigued from the whining of a small child. _“Let go Lance, just let go.”_ He can’t let go he, won’t, _Pidge help me, I can’t hold on._  
“Then don’t,” Hunk says. _No I can’t._  
“Then get up,” Allura says, because she can’t stand there, can’t stand around and keep waiting for Lance who won’t pull himself back up to the cliff edge and take his responsibilities and accept the weight of being a soldier. _“They can do it, so why can’t you?”_

_It’s hard._

_“Of course it’s hard. What, you think that we don’t have our own problems, have our own fears and worries every time we board a lion or face a Galra soldier?”_ Shiro’s eyes glow Galra yellow in anger, and it takes everything for Lance not to let go. _No, I’m not going to let go.  
“Then pull yourself up Lance. Pull yourself up and pull yourself together. You can’t keep slacking, you can’t keep taking things easy, we’re not kids, this isn’t a game, Lance this is WAR!” _

Lance flinches from the anger, his face turned to defend against the yellow eyes; the glowing arm that he fears will be raised against him.   
When he opens his eyes again, he meets his gaze with Coran’s. He is tired, tired of always picking up the pieces and fixing the human that should be more than this. _“You have to be more than this to be a Paladin. Just because there is a healing pod and I can fix your body every time you break it means I should.”_  
Coran—  
“We just don’t have time to find a replacement, we’re too deep in the fight to and you’re making us put that all on hold for your problems?” Coran scoffed and the human emotion of irritation was hard to swallow. 

Lance didn’t fight the man’s words, didn’t fight the truth of the matter. They all understood this, they knew not to get hurt, they were strong enough not to, but Lance…   
Lance was Lance and he wasn’t as strong as them, no matter how much he wished he was. No matter how much he trained, how much he fought, how much experience he tried to gain with every rise of his bayard against enemy and foe and friend. 

_“And me.”_

Lance winced, not wanting to look but finding himself unable to keep his eyes from Keith anyway. His face was tight in anger. Lance can see the raging fire inside him, feel the heat of the loathsome glare that burns his fingers, burns his hands as he tries to hold on still.   
_I didn’t mean to hurt you—  
“You tried to kill me,” _he growls, his voice painful to hear. _No I didn’t, I wasn’t thinking I just—_

_“Hurt me.”_  
Keith sounds hurt. And for a moment the anger is gone, replaced by a despondence that Lance doesn’t think he’s ever seen on the boy before. _“I thought you loved me–”_  
I do—  
“Then why would you hurt me? If you really loved me, you wouldn’t hurt me, you’d trust me and you’d…” But the words fade and the anger burns the sadness to ashes. _“You even fail in that. Love.” _  
He spits the word like a curse and Lance flinches. He wants to pull away. He has to pull away.

But there, held in everyone’s hands, was the silver thread of Lance’s life line.   
It is his mask, his shield, his very person as the Pilot of Blue, the Blue Paladin of Voltron, Defender of the Universe. 

There’s no shelter from the storm. He’s left there to hang to cling on for dear life as the winds howl, the rain buffets him and he’s screaming for an end before he can no longer hold on.   
Lance’s can’t see past the icy raindrops that pelt his skin, each leaving little purple welts along his arms, his body, his face. He can’t shield it, because he’s holding on, screaming at the Paladins before him to help him, _help me—_

_“Me? Help you? Why should I?”_

_No, no stop it,_ Lance begs with nothing to lose, not his pride, not his mask that is ripped and torn. Now all that’s left is his life and his love for his family. 

_Please. Help me,_ he cried, lips moving around the words that get caught in the rain.   
He hears laughter. _“You’re so stupid, don’t you realise that? Can’t you see we don’t want you anymore, that the team doesn’t want you? They sent me here to get rid of you once and for all.”_

Lance doesn’t want to hear it, but Keith kneels beside him, a hand on his throat to keep eyes on him. _“They wanted me to kill you, you know. Quick, easy. Hunk told me to be merciful, Pidge doesn’t care. But I found a way that I can be free of you, but so you still suffer.”_  
Lance shakes his head, crying, but Keith won’t stop. _“It’s punishment, for not being good enough. Because you’re never good enough. You don’t even deserve to stand in my shadow, but you’re still there, like a parasite, running around everyone like a puppy, trying to be loved when no one could care less.” _

_Please, please,_ he begs, trying to hold on, desperate to hold on, fighting his mind to return him to the Bridge where the Paladins are gathered. 

Lance watches. And he waits.   
No one wants to speak. No one moves to do so. 

Everyone except Allura. 

_“Then we need a replacement.”_

The words swipe the floor from under him. Lance’s vision swims and he feels violently sick. But the fear, the shock, the anger, panic, dread, resentment, horror, outrage….   
The _everything_ inside him, somehow keeps him standing. Either that, or its stumble noisily and tell the Paladins he is awake, listening to their obviously private conversation and face their anger.   
He doesn’t want to, so on his feet he remains, hands curled into Anadón’s side for support, keeping himself upright and silence. Anadón pressing back against Lance, sharing the light in his eyes as they stares at the Paladins of Voltron, a deep growl rumbles in the back of his throat. 

“And you’re suggesting—?”  
“Myself,” the Princess said, answering the Black Paladin’s question, stepping closer to him, as if taking the spot light. Because it was hers now, standing tall and proud as all eyes fall on her, finding the answer to the question they had all been asking for so long. Even Lance had understood this as a solution, but he had never spoken about it, never called light to eh obvious when it would push him aside. 

“I am adept at flying the Lions; I already have a bond with all of them as Princess of Altea, daughter of their creator. I can get Blue to let me pilot her and, if the need arises, I can form Voltron with you.” 

The silence dragged out slowly, but no one disputed her words. No one says anything.   
Not in Lance’s defence, not for the Blue Paladin, not for him who was weaker and a burden and now just someone to be pushed to the side, because, honestly, he was no match for the Princess. 

“Alright. Then Allura, as of now, you are the Blue Paladin.”

_Huh?  
Just… just like that? _

Lance chokes out a laugh. It’s quiet and subtle and not a laugh at all. It’s a dying, strangled sound that barely make it past bloodless lips that struggled with trying to pull air in while Lance just wants to let it all go and never breathe again. 

“When Keith wakes up, we can try a mind meld and strengthen our group bond so that if, _and I say if,”_ Shiro said, looking around to everyone. “If we need to form Voltron, and if you need to fight with us Princess, it should be easier.”   
Because of course, they couldn’t let Allura get hurt. She was the Princess. She was the New Blue Paladin. She was important to them.   
Not like Lance. 

Lance, who was choking on his tears, his feet dragging him backwards, trying to stay upright as Anadón took his arm in his maw and pulled him back, away from the voices, away from those that once promised to fight alongside him, now stand against him with levelled spears and masks of indifference.   
The betrayal hit hard. Harder than Lance thought possible.   
_It hurt to realised he wasn’t as important as he thought he was._

He thought he had longer with them, more time for him to get stronger, to prove to them and to himself that he had the right to stand beside them, to fight beside them. 

They were his family.   
And they had abandoned him. 

_It would’ve been kinder to kill him._

Now Lance is stuck to become the person he feared he would be, filled with a despair he can’t control.   
He’s not thinking. His limbs moving awkwardly, without instruction from himself or his mind, shattered and broken, succumbing to the darkness. All he knows is that he can’t listen to this anymore. He has to _go._

The storm that came and destroyed him is just rain once more. Rain on his cheeks, on his chest, pouring out of him in salty tears. The sea of emotion found cracks in Lance’s mask and there’s no buffer as it pours. He’s choking on sobs; his drool and snot making a mess of his once beautiful face but he doesn’t care. Because no one cares. 

It’s the same pain that clouds him when he sleeps, when he’s rolling back and forth in his bed trying to find a solace from the pain inside him. It’s the same plague that haunts him in the waking hours too. When it gets too hard to hide from the team and he locks himself away in his holo room to cry his eyes out and sleep the pain away without being found, without disturbing the others.   
But Anadón is with him now, whispering to him softly as they tread down the dim-lit corridors of the dormitories. { _Forget it Osito. Forget them too. If they have cut ties, we no longer have to stay here where they can hurt us._ } 

Lance doesn’t hear him. His head is listening to his other monsters; all the other voices that live inside him, that have been telling him for months now that he knew this was coming. He knew this was coming and he hadn’t stopped to prepare. He thought he had more time.   
They should’ve given him more time. 

But now, Allura was the Blue Paladin. She would bond quickly with Blue, sharing a stronger bond than he had. She was well adverse to combat, both in space and on the ground. She was a lot stronger, a lot quicker and a lot smarter than Lance, so even if she was a little out of practice, she was already better than the one she replaced.   
Now she was a Paladin, Voltron was stronger because of it. 

{ _And what of us? What will we do now?_ } Anadón asked as Lance reached his room, stumbling into the door before it fully opened, his mind still preoccupied with its own destruction. The medical suit was torn off with prejudice, Lance forcing himself into his clothes in a hurry, a plan already formulating in his mind as he fought with his trousers to pull them on. 

{ _Osito—_ }  
“We have to leave. We can’t stay here.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The shuttle pod still bore the scars of Keith and Lance’s less-than-peaceful space flight to Torous. Keith had inflicted more than enough damage playing jenga with the towers, but the junkyard pirates had added their own flare of artistry, with the giant scorch marks all up one side, courtesy of their main ship and its guns. But at least the thing can still fly, because that’s the reason that Lance needs it.

Lance shimmies up the wing, grabbing one of the larger bags first, cringing at the sound he makes as it smacks into the ship instead of into the main hub. He tries again, and the luggage lands perfectly on the passenger seat. He grabs the other one and they’re both in the ship, Lance sliding in afterwards, shifting the bags so he still has plenty of room to sit down and actually pilot the shuttle. 

Anadón watches from where he is perched on the other wing, a low rumble in the back of his throat as Lance climbs out again.   
“You can help me you know,” the Human bites angrily, waving at the last bag by the shuttles wing, directly under where the shadow-beast is sat. 

Anadón regards him with a sort-of smile. There’s warmth at seeing the boy more himself than he has been in awhile. Anger is hot and delicious, a different taste to the constant cold that rolled on his tongue when Anadón feasted upon the boy’s sadness. Depression was bland and tasteless, but filling, and although Anadón cherished the feeling of being full, he enjoyed the bite of heat that came when Lance threw shit to hard or growled angrily in the back of his throat, just like his shadow-companion. 

“Oi, _perezoso._ I’m talking to you. Help me.”   
{ _I cannot help you, Osito. I don’t exist_ }.   
The words jar Lance’s movements where he’s waving for the bag. It’s only a moment, but Anadón can taste ice on his tongue, before a sweet silkiness of fake happiness. Then the taste is gone and Lance drops from the cockpit, striding over to the bag with a huff. “Yeah, I know.” 

The pair of them return to silence after that. It’s still heavy from the reasoning behind the tasks that Lance undertakes, but his movements neither slow nor quicken as the thoughts remind him that he’s running away. 

Instead, he chooses to focus on his supplies. The two bags that already sit in the shuttle are packed with clothes, only a few spare changed and one of his Paladin under suits that is programmed with thermal technology that will regulate Lance’s body temperature on weird climate planets. There’s two blankets, traditional medical supplies and a glass tablets with data stored to help Lance traverse the Universe alone. They have vast stores of maps, with different solar systems and nebulae recorded, so Lance can at least keep track of where he’s going and figured out where he’s been. There’s planet fauna, flora and denizen records, as well as Galra information, meaning Lance is already going to avoid _Talladega,_ which is a Galra infested system roughly a journey of six Quintant away.   
It would suck to be picked up by the Galra. He was running away to escape pain, not be tortured by the quiznaking cats that seem to think violence was the answer to everything. 

The other bag is packed with freeze-dry cubes of food goo and a containment of water to return it to its gross, gooey self; roughly a month’s supply. Two if Lance halves his rations, but he’s hoping to find a suitable planet long before then. If not, then at least one that can supply him with enough supplies before he has to move on.   
Lance’s last bag resembled a satchel, one that he strapped to his hip, pulling back the seal to check that it did indeed contain the several vials of _Eyre_ he swiped, as well as _Eleiryian_ for emergency only, and a handful of freeze-dry cubes, plus water. 

And that was all the boy had packed. Any other comforts would be a luxury and Lance couldn’t afford them. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to toss all his possessions, instead packing them up and stashing them in his holo-room in one rushed trip to avoid being spotted.  
The others were yet to find it; he doubted that they’d stumble miraculously on his possessions. Maybe, when he found somewhere to settle, and he reached out to them, he’d be able to take everything with him. Maybe. 

Lance grabbed the last bag from underneath Anadón, climbing back into the shuttle and starting up the warm-up procedures ignoring the pressure that has been growing in the back of his mind. It is someone he knows, someone he loves, knocking gently.   
Lance can practically see them, thrown back into memory, at home on Earth, staring down the hallway to see their silhouette through the frosted glass. He can see the waterfall of their curly hair that he had fallen in love with. He can almost hear her voice calling out to him, head tilted slightly as they stare at one another through the glass. 

_“My little cub?”_

Lance couldn’t keep his eyes off of Blue, looking to where she sat just across him from the hangar.  
But then, maybe she’s not calling out to him. Maybe it is all in his head, just wishful thinking that wants to give him a reason to stay. Maybe it is and when he goes to pull open that door, he’ll be met with an empty doorstep and cold winter winds that push into his house and draw the warmth from it. 

Lance doesn’t open the door.   
He’s found this warmth, small and fleeting, but he needs it and he’s not going to lose it. So the door stays closed, his gaze turned away from her once more. He doesn’t want to think about Blue, who has not turned to him.   
Besides, he is not hers anymore. She has Allura now, and she’s proud of it, sat tall, head held high like her brothers and sisters, proud that she now has a real Paladin to pilot her. Allura was far better than her previous, sorry excuse for a Human who just so happened to be with the other Paladins. She had to pretend to accept Lance, so he could ferry the true Heroes from Earth to _Arus,_ where the Castle of Lions had been waiting….

Blue hasn’t spoken to him since he learnt to draw out his gar.   
Lance doesn’t break the silence. 

He turns and settles in the pilot’s chair, giving a glance to Anadón who remains on the wing, glaring angrily at the lack of space for him in the shuttle’s main cabin. Lance doesn’t say anything as the shadow-beast paws over, grumbling as he shakes his feathers and allows his body to shrink down, back to the cat-like shape that he had taken when he and Lance had trekked across _Torous_ together. He sits himself upon the mess of bags that take up space on the passenger side of the shuttle, grumbling about { _cramped_ } and { _lack of space._ }  
“You’re not real remember,” Lance offers with a sly smile, buckling himself into the future, trying not to think about the exacts of his actions. He didn’t want to remain on the ship whilst Allura piloted Blue. Coran would take control as back up for flying the castle, something Lance surely couldn’t do, whilst he would remains just to stare out the windows as Voltron defeated Zarkon. Faster too, now that he was off the team, not holding them down, not pulling them back.   
And Lance would become obsolete. He’d be nothing but a book end, a garden ornament, an extra mouth to feed that Voltron didn’t need…

Anadón pokes out his tongue. { _I’m as real as you make me,_ } he says, replying to Lance’s little jab.   
Lance replies in kind. “Then I would make you useful enough to at least help me carry my own shit into the shuttle pod.”   
{ _If you could do that, it would make you a god._ } Lance tilts his head, thoughtfully. “True. At least I have the looks for one.”   
{ _Which one? Hephaestus?_ }  
The banter is light and enjoyable. Lance would sober if he realised he was enjoying talking to himself over anyone else, but he doesn’t. He’s calm, free from any damaging emotion for now and it’s something he hooks his claws into, tight. It’s a breath of fresh air for him, who has only been feeling hatred and pain for god knows how long.   
It’s the cryo-pod. He always felt relaxed afterwards, and the feeling is complete bliss, even if his rude awakening wasn’t something he wants to experience again. The healing factors lend themselves to more than just the physical plane and for that he’s grateful. And remorseful knowing he’s leaving it behind. 

{ _We could steal one and take it with us. I’m sure they wouldn’t notice._ }  
“I don’t think they’ll notice me missing either.”

The banter was warm, brushing away all of the uncertainty of what Lance was doing. But at his own hurtful words, reality comes crashing back down, silencing him before he could muster up a pun or something to ignore the pain and continue their conversation.  
But it’s gone and he knows it. 

{ _Lance?_ }   
“I’m good, I’m good, it’s just…” 

It’s just that he was running away. He wasn’t confronting the Paladins about the fact they were shoving him aside, replacing him as Paladin. They were kicking him out the picture and what? _He was just meant to shut up and accept it._  
He didn’t want to, but he didn’t want to hear it from them. So he was leaving before they could tell him to piss off and stop holding them back. He’s running before they can drop him off to a backwater planet, saying Earth is too far and Lance hasn’t done enough to warrant a trip home. It’s too far for them and they won’t because—

Anger comes back with vengeance, boiling under Lance’s skin. It was the energy that curled his fist around the handles, flicked the switches on the dash. The glass came down, sealing the shuttle cabin with a hiss of air and clicks. The thrusters flared to life with another button smash, the pod rattling as he pulled back on the controls, raising it up, then pushed forward and watched as the hangar slipped past until all he could see were stars. 

A thousand stars and a thousand possibilities that lay before him. 

Lance ignored the watering of his eyes and smiled to himself. If it was forced, or fake, Anadón said nothing.   
He just smiled knowingly when Lance slammed his hand on the boosters, both of their backs hitting the seats as the shuttle launched forward on nitro engines, their laughter the only farewell to the fading sight of the Castle of the Lions.


	15. A Want To Be Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is gone. Keith regrets his decisions to hide his emotions and blames himself for the disappearance. Hunk appears to help him put things into perspective, but Lance is still out there and they are determined to find him and right their wrong.

**System:** Nairn   
**Location:** Space

Keith sat on the floor, his numb fingers clinging to the fabric of his red leather jacket that he held in a tight grip, his knuckles white from where they were bent around the fabric; the only anchor he could hold onto to stop himself self-destructing. He pressed it to his forehead, feeling the leather warm at his touch, trying to calm the volcano the burned hot inside him. He's angry, he can feel it.  
Has shown it too, glancing for a moment at the blood on the wall, the trail that led to the busted knuckle that is throbbing; dripping crimson down the dorsal of his hand and onto the floor, splashing it in colours of red.  
He had punched Shiro too. Shoved Allura hard, screamed bloody murder when he watched the sight of Lance stood outside the Bridge. He had heard them replace him; Lance had heard them push him to the side for the sake of _Voltron._

_They had replaced him._

They had made Allura the Blue Paladin and he had been there to listen to it.  
Reason told him it wasn't their fault; they hadn't known that Lance was there, if not they would’ve talked to him, they would’ve acknowledge him.   
But Anger presided inside Keith and he couldn't keep himself from socking Shiro in the jaw for being so… so ... _accepting of the idea._

So quickly.  
They had dismissed him, _so quickly..._

It was heartbreaking to watch, to see Lance numbly accept their choice, not even try to step in and stand up for himself. He had just accepted it, accepted the idea that they didn't need him, and before they could tell him themselves, he’d taken himself out of the picture.

He had thought that they thought him unwanted. He had thought that they thought him replaceable.  
He thought that they had slammed the door in his face, ignoring his _“childish outburst”_ that was nothing more than a desperate cry for help, because he didn’t think he could hold on any longer. He had thought that they thought him breaking, weak, _a liability_ to the team...

But he wasn't.

Lance was so much more than that; so much more than a soldier, a Paladin and defender of the universe.   
He was a _meme machine,_ kind of guy with a weird sense of humour. He had a bazillion movies downloaded directly into his brain, constantly talking in quotes and riddles that made little sense to Keith when he tried to participate in the banter, trying to get more than just sly jabs at his hairstyle.

Lance took the role of Pidge's big brother whilst she needed him, taking care of her when the others were taking care of themselves. He helped them all. He helped with Hunk, stepping in when the big guy needed to vent, or to hype him up some because he'd been quiet for a few days and maybe began reminiscing.  
He made jokes to ease the tension; he sang songs and recited the same damn puns if only to stop everyone focusing on the severity of their responsibilities for a moment, just to make it easier for them to breathe. 

Lance made sure they didn’t forget Earth either. He kept a healthy balance of late night movie fests and new age fun from Alien Planets. He was a gentleman at diplomatic meetings and only kept the flirting to a minimum, and surprisingly, only at appropriate times. Diplomatic meetings aside, Lance was always there with a smile on his face, flirting with the locals, being sweet to anyone and everyone, promoting Voltron as soldiers who care and protect.  
He was smarter than he let on, but he never let the spotlight fall on himself for too long. Never for anything serious. He let that honour fall onto Keith, Hunk or Pidge.   
He kept Shiro’s fear of being a good leader in check with an sporadic array of compliments and questions alike, sometimes played off as a joke, always followed by genuine thanks and appreciation that reassured everyone into believing Shiro knew what he was doing, whether it was true or not – Keith knew Shiro wasn’t perfect, despite him believing he had to be, to be a good leader. 

Lance kept Keith in check too. They sparred often enough it almost became routine, just to give Keith extra time to vent and wear himself out when he was feeling particularly stressed.   
Lance had even figured out how to lock the training room doors at night to prevent him, (anyone, but mainly the Red Paladin) from over exerting himself. Keith knew it was Lance because both he and Shiro had complained to Pidge – the tech wiz who was most likely at cause. Though when she had no knowledge, she investigated on their behalf and discovered the source code entered was neither her own nor Coran’s.   
And administered from a certain one-of-a-kind device she and Hunk had made for a certain paladin. It seemed he had wanted to use it for more than selfies storage and blasting music. 

Lance, who was always the first one in the food hall in the morning, taking himself a healthy serving of food goo. _“The early bird gets the good goo,”_ he’d say as if it made any sense. It was probably a quote or some song lyric or something. Most things he said were derived from the internet, or popular culture references that would leave Keith stumped, but often chuckling when he was sure the Cuban wouldn’t notice.

Lance, who brought happiness wherever he went. When something tickled him funny and he howled, clutching his chest, barely breathing for laughing, eyes scrunched up as cobwebs of crease surrounded his eye. Fat tears would roll down his pinked cheeks and it would last forever. It would echo through the hall, up into every room, cheering everyone who heard the melodic sounds, broken by snorts Keith always found endearing.   
His face would crease up, laughter forcing his eyes shut, his mouth wide in an ear-splitting grin that was contagious. Everyone would be laughing, even if they didn’t understand the reason why. 

Lance, who was the perfect person to spar with. He didn’t have excuses for geek-ing out or cooking, and unlike Shiro there was no trauma to shadow over him as they ran through drills. There was competition pushing them to succeed over the other, but it was safe and harmless.   
It had nothing to do with Keith getting Lance alone for a few hours at a time. 

Life-of-the-party-Lance, cannot-stand-silence-Lance, always-with-a-smile-Lance, cute-freckled-Cuban-Lance…

The memories made him smile, but it’s sad and it’s melancholic as he sits in Lance’s private room, surrounded by everything he’s collected. He made the decision not to take it with him, and Keith wonders if Lance hasn’t tossed it, does that mean there’s a possibility of him returning after time.   
Maybe Lance has left, not just so the others can push him aside, but so he can get stronger, so he can go do something the proves he’s strong enough. A spike of fear pushes through Keith, a thought that Lance was planning to go and take Zarkon on one-handed.   
But no. he wouldn’t, that was a stupid thing to do. It was stupid and reckless and something _Keith_ would do. Not Lance.   
Yet Lance wasn’t himself right now and that was enough for Keith to push himself to his feet, trying to move away from the wall that he’s been leaning against, trying to center himself while his emotions burst out and made it hard for him to focus on his train of thought.

_He loved Lance._

Of course it was love. He knew it, had know it for a long time, even though he denied himself of his own emotions because of fear and restraint he wished he didn’t have. Keith had lost too much once when his Dad died, when Shiro left and he’d vowed not to get close to someone unless he knew, he knew he wouldn’t lose them.   
Fighting a war in space, alongside the team that Keith respected and cared for was difficult enough when they had to climb in their lions and face armies of anger, of hate and soldiers that wanted nothing more than to kill them. But when Keith was fighting alongside he openly loved, openly cared for, he knew his mind would be torn. 

The Marmora always said emotions were a sacrifice for the mission. That meant that if the need would arise, Keith should be ready to sacrifice those he loves for the sake of the mission. But to sacrifice Lance? Keith couldn’t.   
He lost Shiro once, but losing Lance was different and Keith knew that. The fear of him changing was enough not to drop his walls and march up to the perfectly tanned Cuban and plant his lips on the boys. 

But he’d already lost Lance. So why hadn’t he done it? Why hadn’t he told Lance he loved him, he cared about him, he didn’t want anyone to hurt him? Sure, maybe his own dismissive attitude had hurt him, but he never hated the boy. Frightened of his own fears, hidden under a bitter, unapproachable and vagueness that he hoped would fool the boy into thinking he was just indifferent to everyone, not just him.   
But god, all Keith wanted to do was tell Lance what he thought, if only to calm his rapidly beating heart when the boy walked in the room, the little flip his stomach did when Lance gave him a playful smirk, as if they were sharing an inside joke; the little fluttering of feelings in his chest when Lance looked his way, eyes soft and they weren’t joking, they were good friends, closed friends, in moments where Keith thought if he asked, or said something, or maybe just leaned in and kissed him.   
What if he just kissed those kissable lips? What if he felt his soft skin against his own; pushed hard against the body that would fall pliant under his roaming fingertips. Delve deep into the heat. Drowning in the moment as Lance pulled Keith inwards, wrapping him in his arms, in his want and emotions that would bundle them together in a moment not to be broken by this broken universe that wouldn’t let his heart beat in time to the boy’s. 

It was three words.   
Just three simple words that would’ve turned their worlds upside down and changed them more than either could imagine. For better, or for worse.  
Wasn’t that what love was? All the fear of what ifs, only to be shared one another. All the hopes of the maybe that could only be explored hand in hand.

But Keith ignored it.   
He refused to accept the pining of his heart and put the pain down to aches from the missions. He refused to acknowledge it, never allowing himself to take more notice than a shoulder shrug and the occasional glance over his shoulder. Love and lust had been shoved to the side to make way for focus and patience.   
They were fighting a war. That was the excuse he found himself holding onto. He didn’t have time for love and emotions when they were in the middle of a goddamn war. 

Love would make things harder. How could he throw himself onto the front lines of the battlefield, leaving his heart worrying about the other? It would cloud his judgement. It could get them both, if not all of them killed. 

Keith had felt it strongly, back on _Torous._ Back when he tried desperately to crush it down for fear of a teammate, but it was so much _more_ than that, and the realisation had scared Keith as much as it scared him when he caught sight of the boy bloody and bound on the floor of the cave, feeling like his world was crumbling around him without the ability to stop it.   
And there was Lance, thinking the Keith had abandoned him. Didn’t he know that Keith would never leave him?   
No. Because Keith didn’t tell him. Didn’t even give him an inkling that there was more to him than just his mullet, his strange taste for the food goo and his Galra heritage. 

Keith had bargained with himself that he would bury his feelings until the war was over. Then he’d confess. Then he’d tell Lance just how he felt about him and apologise for not telling him sooner. When the threat of the Galra was gone, when the rejection wouldn’t affect their team bonds and affect Voltron, then Keith would tell him.   
But that was all over now, wasn’t it. He couldn’t confess to a boy who thought he hated him. He couldn’t confess to a boy who was already gone.   
The bigger remorse was that he _hadn’t_ done anything. He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t done anything. And if Keith had been awake, he wouldn’t have let the boy walk away.   
_He should’ve done something!_

“You didn’t because you were so worried about other things,” he grumbled to himself, palming at his eyes to rid him of blurriness, pushing from the wall to leave the holo-room. To do what, he didn’t know, but sitting there, doing nothing, just reminiscing wasn’t doing anything other than make him feel shit.   
He tried to ignore the crushing regret from words he had cast to Lance during their last fight. He tired to ignore the fact the last words he spoke to him where harsh and full of a hatred that wasn’t Keith. He didn’t hate Lance, but he’d done nothing to make the boy think otherwise.   
Keith had been worried. Disguised it as anger then fooled himself into believing that he _was_ angry and they had _argued._ Argued to the point that Lance was driven to the edge of something, too high, too far to jump and Keith just didn’t care and _shoved him._ He didn’t even see Lance fall. He’d just stood as victor until it was too late.

_Now Lance was gone._

“Keith?” 

Keith looked up. Hunk was stood in front of him, half in the doorway to Lance’s holo room, half leaning back, not sure if he was invading the space. His eyes glanced around, the piled books, the piles of Lance’s possessions shoved to the side where Lance himself had hidden them away before he left. It felt like it had been days, but the truth was he had simply been gone for hours. Keith wasn’t sure to how many, but he guessed it was only the better half of an earthen day. 

Hunk was supporting a half smile, his eyes pulled tight from where he was tired, heck they were all tired. “What’s up,” Keith said, feeling lost as he stood in the middle of the room, looking down to his hands as he held his jacket. Without really thinking he pulled it on, burying his hands into the sleeves that just about reached his wrists.   
A smile caught on his lips when he remembered Lance had lectured him about his lack-of-pockets and all the opportunities to smuggle candy he was missing out on. 

“How you holding up?”  
“I’m doing good. Yeah, good, I’m definitely…” But Keith let his words die because no matter what he says, whether he’s saying it to convince Hunk or himself, he’s not going to convince anyone. 

Hunk just nods with a smile. “That’s good.” He enters the room properly, letting the door slide close behind him as he comes to where Keith is, sitting on the floor. Keith lets himself follow, not sure what he was doing when he was stood. They’re in the middle now, no back support, so Keith lets himself hunch forward, arms wrapping around his knees and pulling them to his chest.   
Hunk’s hand reaches out, taking Keith’s hand in his, turning it over to look at the blood on his knuckles, casting another to the wall where a smear of the same vermillion ruins the precise white of the Altean metal. 

“Are you blaming yourself?”   
The words make Keith stare sharply, but Hunk, oddly stoic and resigned, just turns Keith’s hand back over again, reaching down to a pile of Lance’s possessions, pulling up something soft and blue, wrapping it around Keith’s hand as the unmistakable feeling of cold comfort seeps into his skin. It’s the familiar feeling of the cry-pod, but integrated into the threads of whatever Lance had possession of. 

Hunk says nothing in the silence, an odd prospect considering that he was almost always as talkative as Lance, talking to chase away his nervousness like that was a thing he did to protect himself, to try and convince himself he can distract himself enough that the fear will get bored and wander off on its own.   
But maybe it is Lance that brings out the more lively side of him, always goading him into making bets or reminiscing about pranks – which is something that bled into the culture of the team somehow, as everyone, especially Allura and Pidge, seems to bet on everything for no particular reason at all, now.   
Lance, who was such a crucial center to the team, who had left not only Keith with a broken heart, but the big guy too. 

Hunk has finished wrapping Keith’s hand now; the wound practically wound where it sits ideal and healing on his knuckles, the throb of bruises now just a dull chill across his pale skin that will be perfect when the material is removed. If only this problem could be so easily fixed.   
Just a little Altean magic and everything were as it was. Not perfect, but better. 

“You know that no one blames you for fighting with him,” Hunk continues, having realised Keith wouldn’t be the one to break the silence unless he’s pushed. And Hunk, knowing Keith, knew the buttons to push that would gear him up, to defend his corner at the idle not-jabs that Hunk implied. “I drove him away. It was our fight, it was what I said, and now he’s gone and he’s not coming back—”  
“And you believe that?” Hunk is oddly calm, which is everything Keith is not as he looks, wide eyed and slightly serial-killer with the way his anger has contorted his face into thirty percent pain, forty percent rage, fifty percent despair, ten percent— _wait no, the maths is wrong but_ “That’s not the point Hunk, I _am_ responsible! He fought with me! He tried to tell me something was wrong and I didn’t do anything, he thought I hated him and he ran—”  
“He was fighting with Shiro before you stepped in,” Hunk reminds him, “and you didn’t chase him away. He was drugged, he wasn’t himself.” 

“We didn’t notice,” Keith says sadly, not sure when he had leant himself against Hunk, but he has, and the big guy’s arm is coming up to link around Keith’s shoulders and pull him into his hold.   
“We didn’t,” Hunk says softly, sadness filling his words. Strong and self-directed, but it’s there and they’re all feeling it, at some level, all taking their own space to wrap their heads around the fact that Lance has abandoned them.

“I’ve got to tell him.” The words are a whisper, just barely loud enough to be heard, but Hunk does because he’s close. “Tell him what?”   
“That he’s not weak, that he’s strong, that we need him, that I need him, that—”   
“That you love him?”

Keith turns his head sharply, his body pulling back on instinct, defences kicking into protect himself already and he’s already a foot away, hands on the floor, pushing himself up to stand, stood between Hunk and the door.   
But no. No more running. Running is what got them here and running hasn’t done anything but wear him out and put distance between him and Lance and distance is…. Distance is… 

“You knew.”  
It isn’t so much a question as it is a statement, but still the admission has Keith’s heart skipping beats, his hands sweaty, his head hurting. And this is Hunk, telling him that he knew, not Lance who he wishes to tell. Wait— “Did Lance know?”  
“No,” Hunk says quickly, eyes on the “Sunset Alabama” poster next to him. “No Lance didn’t know. He loved you though. Or, liked you enough that he’d talk about you enough to make Pidge and my ears bleed whenever we cared to listen.” The last words sound bitter, but Keith is still a little shocked from what he’s told. 

“Lance didn’t like me,” he says, because it is true. “He just about saw me as a teammate, he wouldn’t like be, he called me late 80s fashion, he was always on about my mullet, my over-training, my seriousness—”  
“It was all pulling pigtails,” Hunk said with a smile. “You both have the same defence mechanisms; pretending to put up walls to save a broken heart. But you’re both so painfully obvious to everyone else. Pidge and Shiro have a bet going on about who will break first.”   
“Did,” Keith says soberly. “Lance is gone.”  
“And he’ll come back.” 

But Keith just shakes his head, the motion off-balancing him from how fervently he does so. “He’s gone Hunk. He’s not coming back of his own accord and we can’t just drag him back because we want him here. He’s not even a Paladin anymore. He doesn’t have a place here.”  
“Don’t say—”  
“I don’t believe it, but he does,” Keith says, voice level where Hunk’s was loud, wavering with anger underneath all the calm, passive hurt that takes the energy from him. 

Lance didn’t feel wanted; he didn’t feel useful and had disappeared without a goodbye. “He’s not coming back without us talking to him, and Pidge has already said he doesn’t want to be found. Why else would he damage the tracking system? Why else would he specifically take the only shuttle that has Pidge’s improvements?” 

Hunk says nothing. Keith continues. “It’s because he looked at the bigger picture. He figured that he wasn’t coming back, and to make the long haul easier for him, he took Pidge’s shuttle so we won’t find him, so that he can fight with easier ground than just defenceless, weapon-less Lance.”

Hunk stands. Shakes his head. “Lance left because he thought we didn’t want him. We know that he was drugged, and we know that whoever drugged him was on the ship. They probably told him to leave, they convinced him to get in the ship and leave.”  
“No they didn’t,” Keith says because he’s already seen the clip, he knows they didn’t order him other than _“go to the Paladins.”_ It was Shiro and Allura who spoke the damaging words, who replaced him. It was entirely Lance who made the decision to abandon the team, steal the shuttle and hide amongst the stars.

“But we’re going to find Lance,” the big guy says, ignoring Keith’s hopelessness that, _this is it; they’ve lost lance and he’s not coming back._ Hunk doesn’t believe that. 

“We’re going to find Lance and we’re going to bring him home,” he said firmly, taking three strong strides and enveloping Keith in a hug. The boy, not one used to being tactile, tenses in the Human’s arms, his entire body running several degrees colder as Hunk pulls him into his chest.  
“And when we find him, you’re going to tell him how you feel about him. Whether he accepts you or not is his decision, but Lance needs to understand that he is not hated.” 

Keith let himself be held, the reply of a nod hard to do where his head is smooched against Hunk’s chest, but he manages, his cheek rubbing against the warmth that holds him. A bubble of hope rises in laughter. “You make it sound simple.”  
“It is simple.” 

They stood, hugging, Keith’s arms coming up to loosely press at the guys sides – because Hunk is big and all, and Keith can barely get his arms around him for his size. But he’s happy there, just listening to the sound of the big guy’s steady heart, calming him, keeping him grounded.   
They were interrupted by an energetic, yet chary Pidge, who barrelled into the room, glasses askew. 

“We located the pod. It’s two systems away, and it’s not moving.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Space

The shuttle engine sputtered, whined and died, leaving Lance adrift somewhere near a space radiation storm, close to the border of the _Karta XI_ system. He could spot _Jastra_ and her twin moons orbiting close by, but the trajectory of his shuttle was in the wrong direction to get pulled into their gravitational orbit. 

“Yup, that’s it,” Lance sighed, turning off the console and letting his head drop forward onto the dash, face turned so he could see his companion curled up on his luggage. “I forgot to check if the fuel cell was charged enough.”   
Anadón gave him a blank look. “It’s not,” Lance supplied sarcastically, closing his eyes, feeling the cool of the metal dash work wonders for his steadily growing headache. It was because he hadn’t slept upon leaving the cryo-pod, but he’d been too busy, filled with worry to find the team. He regretted not taking himself to his room and planning to worry about them when he woke, but hey, at least he knew the truth. And he’d gotten away before they kicked him out.   
But now, there was nothing else to do but sleep, so why not. 

“We won’t be moving until the thing gains a bit of charge.” Good thing the shuttle dropped them in the vicinity of _Galen:_ a yellow dwarf and just one of the main pinpoints in the systems’ infrastructure. Shame it wasn’t Red Giant, or Supergiant, because Lance’s waiting period would be at least halved and he wouldn’t be as tempted to salvage out a few food-cubes to sate his boredom. 

Although, the two and half Varga of waiting would most likely be interrupted by the Universe’s resident heroes, in the form of their lions, here to pick of Lance and drag him back to the Castle so he could be their glorified maid (read: _slave)._ That is, if they were looking for him at all.   
They probably were, he’d stolen a pod and Shiro probably missed out on giving the boy a lecture or two.   
So yeah, maybe he could re-engage the pod’s tracker and wait for the Paladins to find him. Sure, he’d have to suffer their wrath, and would end up having to try and slip away again – if they didn’t dump him at a space port first.  
But at least that way, there was less of a risk of him suffocating in his homemade space coffin in case his calculations were wrong and it wasn’t two and half Varga to recharge the fuel cells enough to send the pod towards _Jastra_ and her moons. 

_{Do you want to go back?}_  
“No, not really. But it does save dying.”   
_{I thought you wanted to die.}_  
“Not by suffocating. That’s painful.”  
 _{And jumping seventeen floors isn’t?}_

Lance gave Anadón a meaningful glare, but the feathered cat gave a shrug and curled up on his claimed “nest” made out of the boy’s claimed luggage. He folded his claws under him, head supported on leathery arms, head tilted to the side as all three eyes blinked ceremoniously, regarding Lance with curiosity. _{So what was the plan after running away? You didn’t give it any thought.}_  
When Lance didn’t reply, he continued. _{I was just wondering if it was planet-hopping, or were you going to take on Zarkon single handed?}_  
“No,” Lance scoffed quickly. Anadón did the motion of raising an eyebrow. “That’s stupid,” the human went on, with an arm flail and a forced smile. _{If I’m saying it then you’ve thought about it. Lance, I’m only in your head.}_  
Lance snarled, baring his teeth like Anadón did when he teased him too much. “Fine, I thought about it. Then, because I decided it was a stupid idea, I thought about _not_ taking on the entire Galra army by myself.”  
 _{And running away in a shuttle pod wasn’t stupid.}_

The look remained for a moment, before Lance pushed himself back in the chair, staring out at the Space-storm that crackled and fluxed in the distance.   
“Fine, it was stupid, it still is, but I don’t regret it. I didn’t want to be there. I just need to figure out what I want to do. But I’m not giving up fighting the Galra,” he says fervently, pushing back in the chair, not needing to look at Anadón to know he was still watching, still paying attention. 

“They Galra will aim for Earth eventually, and I refuse to stand back and let that happen.” Emotion took an edge to his voice, but Lance kept going. “We’ll find a planet, train up a bit. It will be hard without the Bayard, but I can learn to shoot guns and fight with a sword like Kei- _like a soldier._  
“There’s bound to be traffic. We can get a better ride than this, if not we’ll have to hook it up to some sort of solar energy and use that as fuel. Then we can do planet-hopping, and work on slowing the Galra’s movements until we come up with a more permanent way of defeating them.”  
It was a plan. There may have been holes, and he couldn’t think of anything to fill them right now but it was fine. He’d make it up on the fly, just go with the flow until he had things sorted out. He was used to doing that during missions, although this time, he wouldn’t have the back up of the team. He was on his own. 

“Why did I even bother leaving Earth?” Lance asked aloud. He had thought about returning, about going home, but then regret would be his enemy forever. He knew of the war and he was blindsiding it.   
But what if he got Earth involved? What if he went to the Garrison and got them on his side, got them backing him and launched an attack on the Galra—  
No. Earth technology was nowhere near as advanced as anything else in the universe. Fuck, the garrison didn’t even know of other aliens, Earth neither. All space exploration missions were geographically and it took them thirty seven weeks to get to _Kerberos,_ and that was the furthest Humans were willing to explore in their _“known”_ solar system. 

Earthens were barely exploring their backyard, while everyone else on the planet were already at the bank, robbing it of jewels and money with the getaway vehicle still running. 

Declaring war on the Galra would bring attention to Earth, and although it had nothing to offer in the terms of technology, there were plenty of natural resources and a good billion odd slaves to get working in their mines.  
The idea of Humans standing up and launching an invasion would have Zarkon wipe them off the map before the Humans had charged their stun guns.

So no. No Earth.   
And Lance was going to steer clear of his home until the Galra were defeated and he could walk home proud and victorious. Right now, he was everything but. 

_Was_ a Paladin of Voltron.   
_Was_ a Defender of the Universe.   
_Was_ a hero for the oppressed, champion to the downtrodden enslaved denizens of thousands of planets. 

_Was_ useful.   
Was _replaced._  
Was _important,_ now nothing but a burden to teammates. 

Was delirious, depressed and suicidal. Was ashamed of himself.  
He was least proud of who he was, for failure to be the warrior he strived to be, to be strong like his mother. Instead he is a frightened child, damaged and afraid, the one that hides behind the curtain whilst everyone else forges ahead to play the part they were given, standing in the spotlight like they were meant to be there. Lance just stumbled through the door one day, no one else having the time to push him out again. 

Lance felt the pain behind his eyes, but there were no tears left. He had already cried enough—

Suddenly the darkness of space filled the tiny shuttle pod as a shadow fell upon them, blocking out the light of the nearest star. Lance stared at the ship, feeling himself recoil further into his seat. He had made his decision to leave.   
And now, he was going to have to face the consequences.


	16. A Want To Be Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is picked up from where the shuttles engines broke down. Now he’s left to face the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now comes the OCs. The second work in the series is a glossary which, eventually will also include drawings when I do them – based on my mood, so you can check that out if you get confused.

**System:** Karta XI   
**Location:** Space

“No, no, nononono—!” Lance cringed painfully; his entire body pushed back as far as he could force it in the pilot seat, wishing the damn thing would envelop him and hide him from existence, but that was as likely as hell freezing over. Considering all the politics about global warming and everyone’s fascination with bombs and blowing shit up, Lance doubted that future was coming anytime soon.   
He could do nothing but watch as the sight of the familiar ship filled the majority of the shuttle’s forward window, blocking out the stars, leaving nothing but the gleaming hull as Lance’s focus. He felt his hand drop to his thigh on instinct, but the bayard wasn’t there to come to his beckoning call.   
_Why did he have to run out of power? Why did he not plan things thoroughly?_

Lance grabbed the chair as the entre shuttle shook from the impact of the grappling lines. They didn’t pierce the main hull – _thank god –_ but they did impale the wings respectively, giving Lance no way to escape, even if his shuttle did have power and he had access to Pidge’s nitro boost upgrade.  
He could only sit and wait for the tow line to pull him closer to the familiar _“Spiky Mc Headless”_ Pirate ship, calming his pounding heart as much as he could, readying himself for the inevitable fight.   
The ship had positioned itself side on to Lance, tilted at an angle so that the lines would pull him towards the top of the ship, where he watched a large hangar door slowly creak open; the burnt purple panels slowly coming into detail as the winch pulled Lance closer. 

His slow breathing helped to keep himself calm, but the thundering of his chest threatened to overtake instead of the adrenaline. Battling against the fight-or-flight instinct, Lance pulled his mind in line, knowing there was no way he’d be able to fight an entire ship of pirates, especially after what happened on _Torous._  
He’d been given the warning here of course, but that didn’t mean a beating wasn’t waiting for him on the other end of this tether, and Lance didn’t appreciate the idea of becoming some pirate’s bitch. _Fuck his poor planning skills._

It’s okay, formulate a plan, he told himself. All Lance had was an extendable bo staff; taken off of one of the castle’s Gladiators on stand-by. He had no blaster and no electrified gar. He was as good as dead. 

The ship continued to pull Lance closer, just as two suited Aliens shot forth with thrusters, bodies wrapped in space-suits, guns out and ready. Thinking fast, Lance let his body fall awkwardly, eyes only open a millimetre. He watched through his eyelashes as the inquisitive scouts came close to his windshield, staring in at the presumed _“single unconscious pilot.”_ And there was plenty of supplies in the passenger seat. Maybe something they found while scavenging would be of use to them, if not the ship itself and an extra grunt to swab the deck and wait on the captain like a mutt. 

The shuttle was dragged into the ship’s hangar, the grav functions taking effect and suddenly Lance’s shuttle was swinging from the ceiling. He watched in horror as the hangar doors were closed before the winch started up again, although he was lowered to the floor this time.

The main room itself was huge, about the same size as the lion hangar back at the castle, but nowhere near as impressive. It was dirtier for a start, with plenty of other ships, all little jets and speeders lined up, wing to wing in varying shapes and colours, all bearing their own damage. A walkway split the room into two different levels; the ship moving too fast for Lance to count all the aliens, but he was already on twenty by the time he spotted the small congregation that was crowding near the front of the shuttle.   
The clamour was silenced by the horrible sound of scraping metal and Lance’s body shifted when the pod was set on its side slightly – the landing supports still tucked neatly in the shuttles underbelly where he hadn’t employed it. Well, he kind of couldn’t, he was playing dead while the pirates kidnapped him.   
_Fuck, kidnapped twice in one week by the same dicks. Fucking hell._

Lance could see at least seven misshapen Aliens, all milling about in front of the beat-up shuttle, pushing one another, trying to get a better glimpse at the beat up shuttle and the Human they had pulled from deep-space.   
They had all heard stories of Human’s strength. Of course the creatures were famous since the arrival of the Paladins – curious fur-less things from a primitive (in all relative terms) planet that was barely progressing in space transport let alone galactic warfare, but they’d come, armour gleaming, swords swinging to take on the Galra head on. Lance knew the ideas of caveman mentality – he’d overheard a few curt words but shrugged them off – and maybe the assessment wasn’t all that far off for three fifths of the team, namely Shiro, Keith and himself.  
But now, it was two fifths, with Allura slotting nicely into the “smart, not-caveman” section. Although, she wasn’t even Human so her standing wouldn’t even be considered. Not that the aliens knew that. They hadn’t exactly made a formal announcement in the last hour or so in which Allura and Lance has swapped seats.   
Or, Allura had taken the seat and Lance took the escape route to an early grave, he thinks sourly, keeping his body painfully still as the shuttle stops moving and the Aliens clamour forward. 

This Human, despite the stories over their might and power, looked no stronger than their ship-pet Pangol. In fact, it looked down right pathetic, half sprawled in the pod’s commander seat, body twisting at angles that couldn’t be comfortable for any primitive creature, dressed in odd attire, oddly clean compared to the shuttle it had been, presumably piloting. _It was either unconscious or dead._

And that was what Lance wanted them all to think. Right up until the point that they opened the cabin hatch, and the closest, either bravest or stupidest of the Aliens, leant forward into the space, an appendage reaching out to touch said _“dead-human.”_ Rather than a handful of pudgy, squishy flesh, the Alien got a face full of five pounds, nine ounces of a fourteen gauge strong steel bo-staff. To say it hurt, would’ve been an understatement.  
The weird creature – much like a cobra snake with flaring gills and scaled patterns over his… her… _their(?)_ head – stumbled back, not quick enough to dodge the downward strike of the staff colliding directly with the top of their head, it’s ears pulled back as a wailing escaped it’s mouth, already dripping black blood, much like ink.   
The two behind it, moth-like things that made Lance’s skin crawl just seeing their feathered feelers reaching towards him, got their fluffy bodied targeted with a swiping motion that would’ve broken a Human’s ribs. But the moth-things had armour of an outer skeletal structure that protected them from injury, but not the strong moment of which they’d been unprepared and unable to block, flying sideways into the majority of gathered curiousitors. They all tumbled in a mass of limbs and tentacles and profanities, Lance using the bo to vault over the swiping hands. 

_{Osito this way!}_ Anadón cried from his left, reverted back to his huge intimidating stature, rearing on his hind legs to bring attention to the an open hangar door he was stood beside. Or, panicking beside as he threw himself down on his front paws, kicking out with his back legs, like he was fighting the fear that he consumed as Lance drowned in it, darting away from his shuttle to the creature that had shown him his way out. 

Lance used the opportunity of surprise to put distance between him and those that had captured him, revealing in the fact he had fooled them, the pirates scrambling to their feet, still stunned that the Human had been _faking_ it.   
By the time they had the brains to turn and give chase, Lance was already through the door, Anadón once again beside him, bringing his large staff smashing down on the key code in the corridor. All at once the door slammed close, the locks in place much to the cry of outrage from the armoured tortoise creature that rammed the door, ticks after it had shut. The metal clanged with the impact, but it made no sign of bending to the others will. 

The door was locked shut, with the pirates on one side and Lance on the other. He let out a bellowed laugh, turning to grin at Anadón, who was staring with his hackles raised down the corridor. _Oh fuck—_  
But there was no one there, the hallway empty except for themselves, lit from lights overhead and bead lights submerged in the metal floor. Lance breathed a sigh of relief, thankful he hadn’t just trapped himself in a pack corridor of enemies. But Lance’s luck wasn’t going to hold out for too long, he realised, when all of a sudden the lights flashed red and a fog horn type noise resounded down the small corridor; Lance throwing his hands to clamp over his ears to block out the sound, dropping his bo as he did. 

“Anadón, we have to move,” Lance bit out, shaking his head, pulling up the hoodie of his jacket in hopes the thin material would at least be enough to stop the alarm bleeding his ears. It was better than the white noise they had once subjugated him to, but only just. 

Before the corridor could be flooded by pirates, Lance grabbed his bo and tried to formulate a plan that didn’t consist of blindly running about the ship, getting turned around and effectively dead-ending himself. Any of the rooms that led off of this corridor would be an obvious hiding place. Back into the cargo hold where an array of ships – all perfectly good escape-route-extenders was currently an obvious no-go point, even if the door had been working and the hangar hadn’t been filled with individuals who probably wanted to smash Lance’s head in with his own bo. Shit, what if they only wanted to talk, and now Lance has signed his death certificate by acting in self defence.   
Then again, the pirates weren’t really all that friendly. Lance has already had two run-ins with them, one ended up with him shot and hurting, the other with him kidnapped and… _hurting._ Yeah, shit, okay, and by the sound of the yells on the other side of the door, these guys were the enemy and Lance needed to get off this ship as soon as possible. 

The only path ahead of him: the vents. It was to Pidge he could give credit of his idea, but they weren’t here and he wasn’t mean to be thinking about the team, so he shrugged himself free of the thought, readjusted his grip on the bo and pulled it back to a small configuration about the same length as his forearm. The condensed state was heavier, but it was Lance’s only weapon and he shoved it up his sleeve to free both his hands. 

Lance found a ventilation entry point fifteen metres down the corridor, blessing his thinness stature and slipped in, pulling the grate back onto its fixings when he was fully settled into the shaft. Just in time too, as the grate clicked back into place before the sound of footsteps could be matched to the feet running past Lance’s current hiding position. 

_“Dahast,”_ came and angry voice, the footsteps quickening, echoing as more joined, voices calling out. “Rayon, Rayon what happened?”  
There are too many voices for Lance to hear the answer, but he’s glad for the noise that covers his crawl, running adjacent to the corridor before meeting a cross-section. Lance plays tic-tac-toe, letting his luck take him upwards, which is easier said than done.   
But Lance climbed an elevator shaft with Keith once; he can do a vent shaft by himself. _Shit, fuck we’re not thinking about them, just keep climbing._ Lance does, and he’s already up to the turning point again. 

As he moves, Lance remains mindful of his bo. Even with the alarm still blaring and the shouting of the aliens, he didn’t want to purposefully draw attention to himself, shimming through the pipeline, totally acting like an escaped prisoner and not an esteemed guest. Fuck, Lance isn’t an esteemed anything, but he’s about to be in steaming shit if he doesn’t figure out how to get off this bloody ship and to somewhere where he’s safer, he’s in control and he can finish formulating his sucky plan that _doesn’t_ involve being kidnapped by pirates. 

After realising Lance was shimming himself into a dead end, he rolled over and started back the way he had come, realising his only option was to head back to the hangar. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. They’d look everywhere but where they _“knew”_ he wasn’t. There was logic in his decision at least. 

Lance squirmed through the small gap, using his palms to slide himself down the smooth metal, the bo having been pulled out of his sleeve – it had been restraining his movements too much – now balanced between a mixture of crossed legs and raised shoulder blades. He listened to the sound of the ship, trying to determine how many enemies were close-by by the sounds of footsteps.   
Not many he presumed, when all that could be heard were the voices of Aliens, or one in particular; anger clear in the tones that poured into the vent from the grate ahead of him.

“What do you mean that you lost him? The scouts reported in that the solo pilot was inanimate. _Inanimate._ Which means he wasn’t moving; he was dead inside his ship.”  
“No no,” came a voice, oddly familiar. It was croaky and high pitched, slanted with a nervousness Lance had definitely heard before. _But from where?_

“Toil said sleep, she said sleep, she did, but Human not sleep, Human awake!”  
“So you’re saying that Toil was lying?” _That name was familiar too._  
There was shuffling and the sound of scraping metal as something was forced against itself, whining from the action that brought more horrible noise to Lance’s ears. But the alarm was still blaring and anything would be better than that noise, so Lance didn’t think he cared all that much. He was eavesdropping, doing intelligence gathering. Recon.   
All was good as long as he didn’t get caught. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” the voice whined. “Garecht says what Toil says but Toil say wrong!”  
“So you let the Human run off, and now he’s wrecking the joint from inside the ship.”  
“Garecht not let Human. Human try _kill_ Garecht. Garecht not want to be killed.”  
“So Garecht stayed hidden and let Brea get herself brained instead.” 

The memories with the answers kept dancing just out of reach, taunting Lance until his frustration got the better of his instinct. He shuffled further down the vent; his goal the grate through which all the noise bubbled, light too. He pulled himself closer, greeted with a different angle of the hangar. He was near the top, at the back of the room, looking down upon rows of ships and the walkway less than a foot drop from where the grate was formed in the wall.   
Lance pushed his way into the room, silent and snake-like, body lying close to the floor. The room was empty on his level, the aliens already sent on a ship-wide hunt for the Human that had brained their comrade and broken one of their doors. Lance was wondering weakly about insurance policies when he spotted his shuttle. It was on a raised platform, the winches still engaged but the ship tilted on a horrible angle, three feet off the floor on one side, squished into the ground on the other. Perhaps it was pot luck that the entire thing had settled on its side, pointing Lance in the direction of the door, because the other side was nothing but machinery and more ships that looked worse than his – and that was saying something. At least he knew his could fly. 

From where Lance was perched, pressing his body close to the railing, between two cargo crates, he could see down to the first level without being spotted. He watched the few remaining aliens that surrounded his ship, noting that there was a significant decrease in numbers. And none of them had left the same door as him. Which meant there was a second exit out of the hangar. 

The cobra Lance had cut down was gone, as were the moths, but the tortoise remained, stood beside another pair as he tapped the floor with a foot in repeated anger. The shorter of the two kept glancing at him, mainly his foot. He was very familiar.   
It was the Hasp: the Frog-Alien from _Torous_. The same little shit that had kicked Lance in the face and tried to break his nose. Which probably meant that Doctor Croc was aboard this ship as well…

Lance felt his entire body stiffen, fear eliciting cold in his hands, his fingertips.   
_Plan._ Lance needed a plan and he needed one now. He needed to get out and he needed to get out soon, if not he was going to be the lamb chops to croc’s dinner. Not what he had in mind when he left the Paladins, and certainly not on the cards now as he lets his eyes sweep the hangar.  
There were plenty of ships to steal but the question was Lance’s ability to pilot them, not just their working capability. And considering the shuttle still had all of his supplies stashed neatly on the passenger seat, except for the measly ration that clung to his hips with the satchel bag, vials of _Eyre_ and other necessities Lance thought would be a good idea to keep on his person. Good plan, but none would extend his survival for long.   
There was only so long he would hide in the vents before others came in after him, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t sneak around the ship, waiting until they landed so he could slip off board and be stranded on whatever godforsaken planet they chose to land first. 

For now, the pirates knew Lance was on board and they knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Escape pods could be tracked and they had limited cell life that would get him remotely anywhere _near_ a planet, even if _Jastra_ and her moons were just a jump away. He’d be picked up long before he got there.   
Lance was _seriously_ regretting leaving the Castle now. 

Lance’s attention got dragged back to the Aliens that are stood by his only escape route. More particularly, his attention is pulled to the conversation that they were having. “Human shouldn’t be strong. Human was caught before.”  
“You haven’t caught any Human’s before, Garecht. Stop lying.” When the tortoise speaks his voice is gravel and ice, anger clear in his inflection that remains low and threatening, much like a wolf or a beast that raises its hackles to warn off threats. It reminds Lance of Anadón and he’s searching for his companion whom he hasn’t seen since he entered the vents. He’s not worried about him being seen – he can’t – but not being alone would do wonders for Lance’s nerves right now. 

“Garecht no lie. Human caught.”  
The frog folded his arms, his lips pulling into what could only be described as a pain smirk. It was smug and vile, like Jabba the Hutt, but uglier – if that was possible. Lance wanted to kick that grin off of its slimy, boil-ridden face.   
The tortoise makes to speak but the companion, tall and bathed in blue simply raises a hand and says nothing. Kermit continues his gloating. “ _This_ Human. Same Human.”

“What do you mean, _you caught him before?”_

Lance watched the taller Alien closely. He had to have been at least eight foot tall, maybe even taller, radiating an aura of calm, even as the hangar flashed red around him, the alarm still blaring as if there was anyone still not up to date with the news that there is a missing Human captive aboard the ship, possibly breaking it, if the hangar door as anything to go by.   
But as Lance continues to watch, he seen the tension; rippling through the muscles across his chest, under the armour Lance wouldn’t expect of back-wash pirates that do no more than steal and pillaging. There’s probably a different terminology now that they’re in space, but Lance’s head isn’t as wired as Pidge and Hunk’s with the more complex words of the English language, so he’s just stuck with whatever he can remember from watching Treasure Planet with his family. 

Compared to the other Aliens, this one radiates almost a _royal_ presence. But Lance is assuming and he shouldn’t.   
Still, he lets his eyes wash over the other, and if he wasn’t in a life-or-death situation, he’d let himself appreciate the eye candy that stands a little way from him. The armour he wears is form-fitting, the suit similar to his under-garment he wore underneath his Paladin armour, although this is more durable and made up of a tighter weave that retained its armour abilities without losing movement. He wore a thick pair of gauntlets on his upper pair of arms (he has four freaking arms), boots and leg armour that stopped at the knee and a chest plate with shoulder pads, emphasising his sheer muscle at the base of his neck. They’re all the same pale slate metal, with white and dark blue highlights of light tech that trace a shape on his chest.   
The Alien was oddly charming and Lance watches him; his long tail (yes four arms and a tail) swishing back and forth, both pairs of arms folding around his body as Garecht supplies more boasting, as if it does anything to appeal to the others better nature. The tortoise looks as ready as Lance to shut him up with a well placed fist. 

_“Torous._ Ovule caught the Human. Garecht help,” he said, as if the Alien had done more than prod Lance with a stick and kick his face in a few times while doing a rain dance and chanting _‘broken’._ “Oh,” the Alien said, with a flicker of a smirk sent to the other. They fold their arms at the same time and stare at Kermit. “So this isn’t your Human, it’s Ovule’s. The Human that got away from him while he was meant to be scavenging parts to fix his ship, and thought it would be fun to provoke the Paladins of Voltron instead. How many came to rescue him again?”  
“Lots and lots. Too many to count. Too many to beat.”

“Funny,” the tortoise says. “I’m pretty sure I can remember Ryul told me it was only _one.”_  
The Hasp’s eyes bulged, his voice cracking on the lies that caught in his throat. “Gar– Garecht knows not what Ryul says. Garecht was busy—”  
“Busy hiding,” the Blue Alien finished, watching Kermit change to purple in anger. “Eldar calls Garecht afraid. Eldar not there. Eldar not know.” 

“No,” Eldar agreed, leaning in, grabbing the collar of the frog with one hand to pull him closer, the creature’s toes skimming the floor from where he’s been rough-handled up off of it. “But I do know _you_ Garecht. You whisper and you spy for Orvis so that she won’t gut your useless hide. You spy on all the leaders for her so that she doesn’t kick you off this ship. You’re a coward and a _sakaala_ who knows not the meaning of loyalty.” He pulled Garecht in closer, dropping his voice enough that Lance couldn’t hear the continued threats.  
But by the smirk on the tortoise’s face and the bulging eyes of the Hasp, Lance could guess that Eldar was being very detailed with his explanation. 

Then with a shove that sent the frog tumbling, he ordered him to turn off the alarm. “I can’t think straight with the damn thing still blaring!” Garecht made off at a run, stumbling over his own webbed feet, cursing the Alien as he went.   
That left only Eldar and the tortoise, who began a quick conversation at a rapid pace and quiet tones that Lance missed for the most part. “Go check on Brea. The Human seems to have hurt her pretty bad.” A flicker of guilt tingled in Lance's mind, but he smothered it quickly. She was a pirate and was a threat; he had needed to escape and she was in the way. That was that and he couldn't feel sorry whilst he was on the wrong side of this game of Cat and Mouse. 

“See if Gereen’s medics can stabilise her. If he can, get her on the ship as soon as you can. If he can’t, the stay here with Kenmare and keep an eye on her. As much as I trust Gereen to fight beside me, I don’t trust him or his _Bemis_ anywhere near Brea. She’ll be drugged and a spy before she’s returned.” The tortoise gave a curt nod, lifting a hand which held its own gauntlet. “I’ll call in if we can’t make it. If not, we’ll be on the ship in the forward docks awaiting departure.”   
Eldar gave a nod, his companion turning and leaving through a door somewhere under Lance’s hiding position. He was glad he wasn’t spotted, but now came the real challenge: _escape._

Lance watched the muscled Alien approach the Altean shuttle, the supplies forgotten by everyone else in the event of the Humans’ escape. Lance couldn’t let Eldar take anything. He needed all of it if he was going to make it on his own. 

A surprise attack would be the best bet.   
And with that as his main focus, Lance went about lowering himself noiselessly from the second floor walkway. It was surprisingly easy, considering he still had his bo-staff, and without managing to clang it against the walls of the duct system nor the swinging walkway or the spaceship that he lowered himself on, Lance was pretty proud of himself.   
His ninja skills had only been refined from games of hide-and-seek back on Earth and although gymnastics with Maya had been more for her support than his, he found they came in handy. Except, the lack of muscle elasticity due to inactivity. That can be easily rectified. Maybe he could even bring it up with Allura as a training exercise—  
But the memory that he had left the Paladins shook the melancholic idea from his mind and Lance returned to full focus on his current task: _Ambush._

The Alien kept his attention on Lance's shuttle, his hand wiping the blast residue off of its hull with a tame curiosity, bringing his hand up to inspect it, his back still turned to the Paladin that stole closer. Lance watched as he brought his fingers to his noise, sniffing, before moving around to the front of the ship where the cabin remained open and accessible, all while keeping his back turned and unwillingly settling himself up to an easy strike from behind.   
If Lance was lucky – which he seemed to be right now – then the Alien would become a little too focused on searching for something salvageable amongst the Human’s luggage, give Lance the opportune moment to knock him out with his bo. 

_Three steps._

_Two steps._

_One..._

Lance struck out, bringing the bo down harshly. 

It would've hit its mark had the Alien not lifted his own weapon in defence, twirling around in the same movement with awed grace that left Lance frozen, his bo staff pushing against one of the four (one for each hand – _duh);_ a dense polymer, no doubt stronger than Lance's simple steel weapon.   
Thankfully the steel bar didn't snap, but Lance was shoved back several paces by the sheer force of his opponent. Eldar didn’t look as tall close up, but he was still tall, maybe seven foot rather than eight. He retained his intimidating demeanour, but there was an edge to him, not sharp and fearing, but smooth and gentle even as he stood with weapons poised, legs in a stance that told the Human he was ready to defend.   
Defend. Not attack. He was watching Lance as much as Lance watched his opponent, letting his mind remind him of how he watched Keith and Shiro as they spared. He would have no such head-start this time, yet he didn’t feel worry in the pit of his stomach, readjusting his own stance to prepare himself for the fight he wished he could avoid.   
If this dragged on, their noise would attract others and Lance feared being overwhelmed before the chance of fleeing. Lance wished he had his Bayard with him. He had already lost the element of surprise, not sure if he had it in the first place with Eldar’s seemingly relaxed demeanour and ease at blocking the downward strike, so quick without Lance giving himself away. Or, he thought he hadn’t.   
But now, with no upper hand, a primitive (in relative terms) weapon and failed planning, and even the inability to think as well, as the idiot charged in with a guttural cry. It was desperation at best. An instinct to fight his way to his escape and flee.   
He had already fled from this hangar once, but ship was nothing but a labyrinth of corridors. Out there, there was more than one monster waiting for him. At least if he fought this enemy, quickly and efficiently, he might have enough time to make it out before the rest found him. 

Lance's first swing was blocked as easily as his initial strike. The stab to the abdomen was slapped away, the swing to the ribs mockingly tapped with the Kali as the Alien just gracefully took a half step back, pulling his entire being out of Lance’s limited reach. 

“Not bad,” Eldar mused, tapping out another jab that would’ve struck his neck has he not knocked the momentum out of the swing. “But watch your footwork. You're too far back to get any real damage, and if I do this—” he lunged forward, snapping his wrists to pin the bo mid-strike “—you've just lost your weapon.” But instead of disarming the Human, Lance was allowed to readjust his grip and focus on his next move. 

Being taunted, and obviously so made Lance angry, but he’d already had enough of blindly launching in. There was a memory about rage and the reminder he didn’t have his gar to tip the balance. This time, he'd think it out and get in a hit. One step, a half step and another, Lance brought up the bo as a feint, slamming his heel onto his opponents knee.   
Eldar stumbled back with a surprised shout, but not before catching Lance in the chest with one stick, the other three hitting the bo in quick succession.   
The shout quickly bubbled into laughter. Eldar stood up straighter, extending an arm, tapping Lance’s bo lightly, not needing to take in the space due to his longer reach. “You're good, I'll give you that. But I have three more shafts than you, and two extra arms to attack with.”  
“Then put them behind your back and we'll fight fairly,” Lance snapped, his brain running a mile a minute to try keep up with the fight – completely ignoring this chill-axed, laid-back attitude he was getting. _No, can’t think about that, just think about fighting, just think about the next more._

Lance needed to end it quickly if he was going to escape, but the idiot was starting to tire. The effect of no sleep after however long spent in the cryo-pod was working pain through his body. He hadn’t taken a shot of _Eyre_ in a while, wanting to extend his supply until he weaned himself off or found a supply line.   
Whatever. Lance needed to end this fight quickly. 

Eldar grinned and, surprisingly, tucked his lower pair of arms behind his back, holding the Kali sticks between two hands, raising his upper two to signify he was following Lance’s snarky comment. _Huh?_

“Well then,” he said with a grin. “Shall we dance?” 

Lance didn’t care what this Alien’s game was. He made the first move. He’d learnt it from Saturday morning TV. The first to strike was the last to fall. Or that was the theory at least, because no matter how many times his bo met flesh or stick, he just couldn’t get Eldar to buckle.   
Eldar kept his rhythm and patience, dealing as many as he took. Lance pulled a feint. The first one of the fight, spinning around, catching Eldar on his exposed gut. It winded him, giving Lance the opportunity to knock him in the shoulder. He aimed for his head, but the Alien dodged. Two arms out, wound around the bo and trapped it in place. 

He pulled a smirk. “Not bad. Now let’s see how you dodge.”  
Back-step, back-step, side and jump. Lance was forced to dance for his opponent, doing all he could to stay in front of the barrage of attacks that came one after another, again and again. He was tiring too quickly, and running out of time. Should he run for the shuttle and prey he can get it airborne before Eldar can stop him. But no, he hasn’t even opened the hangar doors and his opponent is too fast for just a drop-and-run technique. Or ruse, because it wasn’t really a technique. Just a retreat tactic. That would fail. 

Another swing. Another strike. Lance threw out his own blows and took just as many; to his ribs his arms and his shins where his bo failed to catch their trajectory. They hurt like a bitch, but Lance wasn’t giving up here. He _couldn’t_ allow himself to give up here.

Eldar’s arms swung around, both leaning to the right where Lance can— _No, not yet, instead he should pull a feint!_  
It was a rather unfortunate decision, because Lance’s arms were suddenly too far away from snapping back for a much-needed defence.  
Eldar’s Kali stick, appearing out of nowhere snaps onto the back of Lance’s head, only for it to be immediately snapped in the other direction when Lance’s bo, misdirected, whacked his own forehead from the front. Double blow, and one from himself, how embarrassing.  
His skull is little protection for his shaking brain and Lance is pretty certain he can feel it oozing out his ears in slug–like drops. Ah fuck, is his nose is bleeding? 

There’s a chill on his neck and Lance actually feels himself black out for a few seconds. He zones back in to the moment, just in time to hear Eldar mid-chuckle. Lance blinks a few times, trying to stop the Alien from having eight arms rather than four. _Now that would be a disadvantage._  
Lance shakes away the double vision, deciding to focus on Eldar, to save himself from passing out again – and he wasn’t on the floor yet, so _bonus!_  
The first thing that the Human takes note of is four blue arms holding Kali Sticks. _Four. Not two._

Eldar laughed, watching Lance take a stumbling step, an attempt to stop himself getting acquainted with the floor. “You said… we’d fight… fairly,” he mumbled, dropping his bo to cradle his head in his hands. _Quiznak, his head hurts._  
His brain feels like it’s swimming through his skull, trying to stop his body from ungracefully slumping forward. His ears are ringing and his body feels heavy, not to mention the migraine that’s searing through his head. _Is that sand in his mouth? Why is he eating sand, shit that’s gross._  
Lance is heavily sweating all of a sudden, the feeling repulsive and all he wants is a shower and to go back to his room and sleep.

Eldar is still laughing. “No, little Human. You suggested that we spar fairly. I never agreed.”  
Lance growled at him, forcing his feet backwards in retreat, but he wasn’t quick enough. Two of Eldar’s arms grabbed him, both wrists pinned in the alien’s grasp, a third hand steadying him when Lance was about to hit the ground. _Why hello, that looks comfy. Comfier than standing._

“Hey, I didn’t think I hit you that hard,” Eldar says, softer than before, the edges of his being smoother and blurry as Lance glances up to him. He’s close, his voice easy to hear yet the words slur together as Lance struggled against the restraints of a concussion.

“Humans… don’t do well… with blows to... heads,” he breathed, trying to keep down the half ration of food goo that wanted to make a reappearance. He managed to stave off vomiting, somehow, but remained stood in front of Eldar, who was still to let him go. Nor did it look like he had plans to do so.  
Lance is happy to find himself not overly concerned. At least he hasn’t fallen over yet.  
His instincts felt muted underneath the dull throbbing pain, as if everything around him is wrapped up in a giant fluffy blanket. The thought is making him tired. _Where was his bed?_

Something told Lance to keep fighting. Instinct, like a scratch under his skin he can’t quite itch. It shifts in his being, his fingers twitching to the motion of muscles spasms that tell him to shake off the hands that hold him and prepare for the next attack. _Next attack?_  
The instinct was losing to the stronger pull of tiredness. Through the fuzziness he can see Eldar watching him, his eyes blinking methodically, orbs of starlight glittering back, registering the vagueness of the Human that has gone oddly quiet. “Did I hit you too hard?”  
 _I don’t know, did you?_ But the words don’t come out and Lance is left blinking blankly, watching Eldar draw back; his nose scrunched up slightly, wrinkling behind the darker blue of skin, the nostrils flaring when he pulls the scent of the Human, searching for something more than just what can be offered by words. 

He’s fox like in appearance, his snout in the way he tilts his head, long ears tilting back as he listens, one cocking downwards. Lance lets his eyes follow the motion, his mouth opening for a moment, closing. He watches the soft press of concern from Eldar, shown in the way he lets Lance’s arms go and supports him with only two of his own; a third hand moving to Lance’s shoulder, another helping to keep his head upright where the join of spine and skull has decided on a quick vacation. _Hah, that sounds like it’s a bad thing._ It might be; Lance isn’t sure. He’s looking around, trying to see where his fluffy blanket is gone. 

Thinking hurts, but the numbness is fading and Lance can remember he was fighting a moment ago. _Who though?_ There’s no one here that shows violent intent towards him. They must’ve gone. His friend must’ve fought them off. 

Lance sorts through the fuzziness and the pain, focusing on getting his balance under control, making a point not to focus on his swaying vision. “I’m good,” he says when he’s sure his mouth won’t open and drop out sand. Now it feels like he’s got nettles and tin foil in his mouth – _gross_ – but talking rids the feeling and he let’s himself continue. “Where’s Anadón? Is he here too?” Lance’s voice sounds pitched. The fact that his head won’t stop pulsing wasn’t particularly helping his concentration to make it sound normal again.   
Hey, maybe Anadón chased his attacker away. But where was his friend now? Maybe he should go look. 

Lance tries pushing Eldar’s hands off of him, but the Alien doesn’t remove them, simply chooses to readjust them, still close to Lance’s body so that he can catch Lance if the boy decides to fall. He takes a step, it’s hard, but he’s not falling and the Human lets himself grin until the same perking of the lips repeats on Eldar’s face. “You fought well Little Human,” he said, respect clearly written on his features. “I’m glad we got to fight. There aren’t many here that managed to catch me off guard, like you did.” Lance grinned. “I aim to please,” he starts, but the rest of the sentence is abandoned, thanks to a wave of nausea that wasn’t welcome.

Eldar feels him tilt and helps sit Lance on the floor to stop him from falling down. “Easy, easy,” he lulls, voice soft as if he’s calming a crying baby. Lance pouts. _He’s not a baby._

The pair of them sits in silence for a while. Lance can’t keep track of the time, but what else is new. _Shouldn’t he be fighting someone?_ He wasn’t sure. Something inside said he shouldn’t be here, another part cooing softly that he should stay. He didn’t have the energy to get up, so the latter it was. No, wait wasn’t he meant to be looking for Anadón? Lance asks Eldar after his friend, but Eldar says only Lance was in his ship. “No, he’s here somewhere. You just can’t see him,” Lance says matter-of-factly, his tone much like a five year old saying the sky is blue because that’s the colour of the giant’s ceiling, and not because of the silly science reason his teachers continue to push on his innocent imagination.

Eldar says no, he hasn’t seen Anadón. He does a funny thing where he leans back and sniffs the air. Says he can’t smell him either.   
Lance just watches Eldar, eyes sweeping his features with interest and something pooling in his stomach. He hoped it wasn’t more food goo.

The Alien was captivating.  
His skin was a dark blue; the colour of blueberries on his mum’s baked pie, the colour of brand new jeans yet to be worn and weathered into the faded denim. It is the blue of a whale shark that breasted the water, the sweeping colour of winter seas and summer skies, the indigo of a stormy night, the cobalt of icebergs, the lush tint of a sapphire, the entrancing beauty of a blue moon...

No one feature made him handsome, but rather the entirety of his being; his manners and his smile between two pale lips. His ears are similar to Allura’s in the way they stretch outwards from his head, but they’re much longer and furred, light little fronds of royal blue with flecks of white, lighter hues in the mix. The size of his ears compared to his head reminds Lance of a Fennec Fox and the idea makes him giggle a little.  
Gold glitters in the forms of piercings in his ears, much like the shine in the corners of his eyes. For a moment they are pale and milky, but as they watch Lance, the irises bleed sunshine.   
His face is humanoid except for the snouted nose. It’s a puppy nose and Lance is giggling again. 

Eldar didn’t seem a threat to him. He recalls that _they_ had fought, or… more like the two of them had only been sparring, just like he would with the Paladins.  
Now that they had finished, Eldar simply struck up conversation. He let Lance lean against the raised platform that supports his shuttle before sitting cross-legged opposite him, one set of arms folded, the others fiddling with one of the gauntlets on his wrist, typing code into a little keyboard on the underside. A light flashes, a trill beep and Eldar sets his hands down to rest in his lap. 

“That staff. You don’t fight like normal fighters do. The moves are powerful yet… there is wasted energy,” he says thoughtfully. “Were you injured before the fight? You held your own, but you almost dropped the staff twice.”

Lance nodded, not supplying comment, but the Alien begins to ramble. He seems inexperienced with conversation, as if not understanding two should speak and not just one whilst the other listens. Although, that’s nice too because Lance doesn’t think he has the capability to keep up with the rambling right now. His heads’ a little foggy. He pulls the fur blanket around himself and smiles, letting himself settle back against the support, trying to get as comfy as possible on the cold floor of the hangar bay, watching Eldar talk.   
His headache is slightly better. It’s not gone, but it’s gone from thunderous pounding to a mildly painful throb that he can ignore if he finds something to distract him. His vision still swims and the Alien’s words slur now and again, but its better and at least he’s not standing. _Eyre_ will clear that right up he thinks, but so will sleep and he doesn’t want to waste the medicine. Not yet. 

Eldar takes the boy’s focus again. _It’s a nice focus,_ he thinks, his mind listening to the gentle rumble of the alien’s voice. It’s warm and comforting, and his laugh is mesmerising. There’s confidence in his tone, his words too but they’re going over Lance’s head too quickly to make sense of anything other than Eldar’s smile that grows, wider and wider the longer they sit there. His teeth aren’t smooth, but little bumps of smoothened fangs, much like his personality. All mean and _“grr”_ on first appearances, but softy and puppy when the walls are abandoned and talking is enjoyed. Listening, on Lance’s behalf but he doesn’t mind.   
Doesn’t notice that he’s stopped listening either, his mind beginning to wander, as it always seems to do. Lance doesn’t know this aliens’ race, he realises, racking his mind for anything in Coran’s stories or his own memories of late night reading. He knew many names, but none come to the forefront of his mind. Maybe it was the headaches fault. Maybe he just didn’t know.

“What’s your home?” he asks, interrupting Eldar mid-sentence. The Alien looks up from where he’s talking about fighting techniques, his head tilted. “Home?”  
“You know, native planet,” Lance pushes, his headache falling to the back burner as he stops relaxing and engages in conversation. “What is it called?”  
“It’s not called anything. The Galra destroyed it seven Deca-Phoeb prior.”  
_Seven years._

“But you must live somewhere. You can’t live _nowhere.”_  
“I spend most of my time on my ship, if that’s what you’re asking.”  
“And your family with you?” Eldar’s expression softened. “No. My kin live amongst the stars.”  
“Oh. Sorry.” It’s measly, but Lance has nothing else to offer. Then to fill the silence; “mine are on Earth. I haven’t seen them for two. _Deca-Phoeb,_ I mean,” he says, rambling like the other had. His own eyes are averted now, but it’s not like he means to. He doesn’t want to see the same gratified pity he’s always shown when _family_ becomes the topic of conversation: sore and unwanted. Lance has to remember not to talk about it. Yet Eldar let him.   
“You miss them?” The words are familiar, spoken once by Trigamon, and even Anadón who has yet to join him. Lance nods numbly. “Of course. They’re my home. But they think I’m dead. And I probably will die before I ever see them again.”

Eldar says nothing, but his nose scrunches up again and his eyes darken to pools of coal at the smell of sadness permeating the air. It’s salty, like tears, but the Human isn’t crying and Eldar is at a loss of what to say. 

So he doesn’t . He choose something else and sticks with it. “That word,” Eldar says, leaning forward. “ _Home._ What does it mean?”  
The word is foreign but intriguing to him, and if it can pull away from the salty bitterness that grows in the air, he will.   
Lance thinks for a moment. Thinks back to Earth, at all his childhood memories. Then to the Castle, where he had been a Paladin with his friends. _For a time, at least._

“Home,” he says eventually, “Home is where your family are.”   
“My blood-kin are all dead.”  
“But what about your new family?” The words have Eldar furrowing his brows, as if the idea new family is impossible. “New... _family?”_  
“Yes, new family. Aren’t the others on this ship your family?”  
“No,” the Alien said quickly, tone angry. “These are nothing more than Gereen’s men. Disloyal. Dirty. _Sakaala,”_ he hisses, letting his hatred burn on his tongue, the words like a whip striking the silence into oblivion.   
Lance watched him. “Sorry.”   
It sounded lonely. Because it was lonely.   
_And he knew just how lonely it was._

“Home might not be where your blood family is, but instead the ones you love,” he says with a smile. “They don’t have to be kin. They don’t have to be the same race. They are simply others you care for and don’t want to see be hurt.”   
“You have family that is not Human?” It was Eldar’s turn to wear the sad smile. Lance copied unconsciously. “I used too. But they’re gone now.” There’s darkness pressing at the corner of his eyes, but he can’t see past Eldar’s face. Lips pressed together, eyebrows narrowed in thought. His ear flicked whilst he was distracted and Lance wanted to laugh again.  
But he’s tired. A nap sounds like a good idea about now.  
 _Yeah, a very good idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just rereading that whole thing, looks like my writing style has changed somewhat. Looks like without the Paladins, Lance’s narration takes on a more sarcastic edge.


	17. A Want To Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has been picked up by the pirates. But instead of finding himself in the hands of Gereen or Ovule, another has found Lance as plans to take him away from harm. Can Lance possibly begin to hope that he has found somewhere he is wanted? Somewhere where he can keep fighting the Galra, that he’ll be useful, that he’s needed?

**System:** Karta XI   
**Location:** Space

Eldar caught himself, feeling his voice crack on the name of his Planet, idly wondering if there’d be a day when he could say it without having the bitter emotions of pain and sadness well up inside him like a geyser he could barely contain. Thoughts of _Pantheon_ left him with the smell of Gill-Berries, the taste of fresh springs on his tongue and the soft purr of _Limuli_ wings as the creatures flutter between the perennial blooms.   
And then, abruptly, before Eldar can lose himself in the saturated memory of technicolour, he feels a shift in the air around him. His own sorrow is washed away by the scent of contentment, his eyes pulling back up to the sight of the Human that sits across from him. His head is tilted back slightly, a small smile on his lips, his eyes closed.   
Eldar lets himself focus, listening to his heartbeat – just the one, jolted – slow down further to a resting pace as he succumbs to sleep. He must’ve been very tired if he can sleep straight after a fight. Perhaps he has enough trust in his own skills that he won’t have to worry about what trouble he’ll have to fight his way out of when he wakes. 

He was intriguing, this Human. Eldar had little, to almost knowledge about them as a species, other than the rumours that floated between the crews when they spoke of Voltron. The tales of these fleshy, four limbed creatures were laughable at most, Eldar recalling how he doubted that only five individuals had been able to break through Zarkon’s defences in the main base of the Galra Empire. It had been a rescue mission as he had found out, after saving Or’, a Galran Kit, from death at the hands of Gereen’s crew. Or’ had valuable knowledge and it would’ve been cruel just to kill her, even if she was only still a youngling, barely growing into her ears.   
Needless to say, she brought plenty of her own tales about the Humans that had found the Lions of old Altea and formed Voltron to take on the Galra Empire. They didn’t always hide behind their technology, despite everyone’s disbelief that they were strong.   
Yet they had proven themselves time and time again. Only the five that had ventured from their home planet, that was. The rest of their species had barely made it out of their own backyard.   
The Galra invasion had prevented any real investigation or attempt at contact with _Earth;_ the researchers being too occupied with the safety of their own planets than the scientific analysis of another. But even without conducting investigations on the home-species, Eldar had thought he understood the creatures, heard the whisperings of the “Paladins,” as strong, dependable and practically indestructible creatures. 

Eldar wasn’t seeing it.   
Sure, there was power in the boy’s small frame; a certain aura that the boy had brought forward in their fight that reminded him of the feral beasts back on his own Native Planet. A spark in his chest that had ignited joy in Eldar when they fought, not his usual attitude to someone that had just injured a crewmate and tried to injure him too.   
_Frightened,_ his mind had told him when he first caught the scent of the Human that lingered at the back of the room, thinking himself hidden while Garecht pretended to know what he was talking about. But the scent was dull and masked by a sweetness that was familiar and not. It reminded him of Pantheon, to which Eldar tried hard to ignore. He didn’t want the memories, tried to forget the coldness that came with reliving moments of a world since passed.   
But with just a simple word, this Human had brought it all back. Shared his own sadness too, it seemed even if Earth was not obliterated in the stars. _Intriguing indeed._

The boy still hadn’t opened his eyes. Perhaps it was the beginning of his sleep-cycle, and that is why he had looked strained during their fight. Eldar still guessed and incomplete injury – one still healing and not yet free from pain. He wasn’t too concerned for the silence until the Human tilted, his body slumping forward, head ready to smash itself against the floor. 

Eldar thrust to arms forward, catching him before he could fall, remembering his words. _Humans don’t do well with blows to the head._  
Had Eldar seriously injured him when he struck? He hadn’t wanted to.   
It was curiosity that made him stay in the Hangar, aware of the presence watching him whilst he tried not to kill Garecht. Then he lured the Human out with a show of disinterest after sending Rayon away.   
It was the Human who had struck first. Not to kill, if not he would’ve lanced him from behind. It was an odd invitation to a spar, but Eldar replied in kind. 

It was exhilarating. Eldar, impressed by how long they fought for had enjoyed himself, letting his body move more than it would when he sparred against the Draora brothers; or with Uilt’xen when she was in a good need of beating meat into a bloody pulp. But Eldar knew, even when training on the ship, most of his crew ducked out of sparring with him, or if they did, they never took the opportunity to hurt him like this opponent obviously had no qualms about (Uilt’xen was a special case). 

It was while sitting there, thinking of his crewmates and the Human’s raw talent, despite injury and tiredness, that he thought to offer the invitation for the Human to join his crew. Here, on Gereen’s ship, he’d just be drugged or beaten until loyalty meant only a word and he was a thief with little regard.   
Then again, as a Paladin, he must need to return to Voltron and his team. If Gereen drugged and beat the Human, that would bring the wrath of Voltron down upon the Solnha. Eldar didn’t quite fancy dying for his comrade’s stupidity. 

Eldar pulled the Human closer to his chest, preferring to hold him in his secondary set of arms, his first set grabbing the discarded staff. He gave a light tap to the shuttle pod, setting it close the hatch. It was in that subtle movement that took his nose closer to the boy did he smell the sweet scent of a flower he thought destroyed with him home-world. _Sugkie._  
So Gereen had already drugged him. Then that meant this _was_ the same Human from his first run-in with Voltron back on _Torous._ He and another had fought Ovule and managed to escape him.   
Garecht hadn’t been lying. _That was a first._

The Human remained asleep as Eldar readjusted his grip, making sure he won’t drop him when he stands – seriously, if Humans are so resilient, why is this one so carefree he is beginning his sleep-cycle in the middle of a ship full of aliens that want to hurt him?  
Then again, maybe the Human is faking sleep— No Eldar can hear his heart slowing. He just needs somewhere cool and quiet to wait out his sleep-cycle and then he’ll be awake again and they can talk without the sparring.   
So Eldar walks, the Human body tucked against his chest, the feeling taking him back to when he’d doze with his brothers and sisters, pups themselves that would lay into his cradling limbs, their tails wrapping around his body with care and little content purrs when Eldar jostled them awake. 

The walking doesn’t jostle the human and he is glad for the emptiness of _Rexx-Marth’s_ corridors; the crew of the ship still hunting for the Human that hadn’t run too far from his own ship. Eldar heads for the forward docks, where his own shuttle is waiting. Formalities with Gereen as heads of the Solnha Alliance have already been conducted. Now he craves the familiarity of silver Argentums Walls and Black Obsidian floors of his own ship, with crew that could be his family, if he allowed himself to think that. He hadn’t; no other was Pawther like himself, and even if Gereen shared his home-world once, they were nothing more than comrades now. 

Eldar’s silent musings were interrupted, rudely, by the appearance of a familiar Trigamon that didn’t belong with his own crew. Their eyes fur flickered warily when they looked upon the parcel in Eldar’s arms, clearing their throat but saying nothing more. Eldar didn’t stop to listen, simply walking past, his tail swiping near the creature as he passed, warning him to keep his distance.   
“Gereen wants you,” he said suddenly, before Eldar can get any further. “Tell Gereen I’m busy. He can hail me after I’ve entered the Medellin System.”  
“But that is– I don’t understand, that is three Movements’ away.”   
_“Precisely.”_

Wilt made to follow but a growl from the Pawther stilled his footsteps, the creature bowing his head quickly to retreat to his hole, like the rest of Gereen’s minions. Eldar didn’t detest them too much, they were smart and they respected loyalty, but he also knew they were a part of the ploy of fake rescues; drawing in other ships to raid their supplies and capture new crew, supplies or slaves. Whatever took their fancy. 

Eldar marched down the corridor with renewed energy, his grip on the human tightening. He didn’t just want familiarity. He wanted a bath too. 

The Crew of the _Rexx-Marth_ scurried from under his feet, whispers following him as the Pawther passed; a scowl permanent on his features that silenced their tongues. There were looks to the prize he held in his arms, but no one was stupid enough to stop him as he headed for the forward Hangar, ready to leave Gereen’s ship.   
It was there though, that there was a stupid creature that thought he could stand up against Prime: the Chief and his mate. 

Gereen stood at the end of the jet’s ramp, Orvis stood next to him hanging off his arm. She had ditched her clothes again, her nudity chosen to show a sense of intimidation, but Eldar only saw a conniving _lilodah_ whose body was as much a tool as the slaves she and Gereen trapped with their drugs and their threats.   
He hated the way they worked; hated the fact that they took Aliens’ as trophies from hunts if they didn’t willingly bend to his will. It didn’t matter if Gereen’s _Bemis_ had infected him with _Sugkie;_ he wasn’t going to leave a soldier as strong as a Paladin of Voltron at the hands of him. 

“I called for you,” the viridian Pawther said, as if he had any power over his kinsmen. His lips pulled back into a smirk, his single pair of arms rippling with energy, the scent of anger poorly disguised beneath the intoxicating stench of arousal the dripped off of his mate. He wanted to fight, easy to see, but Eldar wouldn’t engage.   
Instead he’d deal bloody battle with his words and shut the pup down before he could think to raise his hackles. “I’m not someone who can be summoned,” Eldar said, remembering to keep anger from his voice. His tail flicked in agitation however, Gereen smiling from the holes in the younger’s mask. “I thought you had abandoned the old ways,” he said, a hand waving to the jet, to the lack of guards that stood shoulder to shoulder with the Prime. “And you still have not. It does not change that I will not respond to your summons.”   
“Yet you’re here, called to partake in the meeting about our next attack.”   
Eldar felt his hackles rise. “I came as Leader of _Godolphin,_ not as Prime. But I’m here now and you seem to think I won’t leave until after I listen to hear what you have to say. So tell me, what do you want?”

Gereen flashed his teeth. “I want what is mine.” 

Eldar’s grip on the boy tightened. He moved his arms, taking him in the lower pair, the second set crossing over above, making a shelter from the Aliens that wanted him for nothing more than torture and primal mating rituals. Or just to pitch against others in battle for entertainment of the “crew.”

“And what is yours Gereen? I see nothing here,” Eldar began but was silenced by a snarl.   
“ _He_ is mine,” Gereen hissed, his tail snaking back in forth in unrestrained anger. “I fought him and I won—”  
“When?” Eldar challenged, already knowing the words were false. “On _Torous?_ You were in council with me and the others leaders. Ovule may have ambushed him, but there was no battle of equal footing.” Gereen snarled again. “No. I fought him when we first faced the paladins.”  
“And what proof do you have?”  
“I was there.”  
Eldar eyed Orvis with carefully concealed repulsion. “I wouldn’t trust the word of a _sakaala_ like you,” he said, feeling his ears flick in agitation at being kept here. He wanted to get off the _Rexx-Marth_ and onto his own ship: _Godolphin._

“Orvis was present—”  
“And will also say anything you tell her too, if she was or wasn’t with you,” Eldar interrupted, watching his attitude rile up the fellow Pawther further. “It matters not. I claimed him with _Sugkie_ the first time Voltron found us.” The Prime glared. “So that was where your scientists have been. Not here to fix your ship, but paying distraction for Voltron.” Gereen shrugged. “Roamer told me she didn’t want Voltron to stop us from reaching _Genwar,_ so I used the least threatening members of my crew to act as a diversion.”   
“And had them continually drug the Human with the poison flower. Were you planning to take Voltron for yourself, or was there another reason you infected the minds of one of its soldiers?”  
“Does it matter?” Orvis crooned from the hip of her mate, stroking his fur lovingly, tilting her head when she turned back to stare predatorily at the midnight fur. “Gereen wants the Paladin. Give him up,” she said simply, as if it was just a matter of handing over an object. But that was all that Gereen’s crew was to him. Objects and tools. 

“The boy is not yours,” Eldar says firmly, voice injected with a steady calmness that is using all his patience to maintain. Gereen may have been kin of his planet, but there was something about his attitude that always riles Eldar up, and he has the urge to crush him back to the second rate Pawther he is.   
But if he does that, Eldar would cause a rift between the different factions of the Solnha Alliance. He is already too busy trying to stay one step ahead of the Galra, he doesn’t need the added threat of being betrayed by supposed comrades. 

A fight with Gereen would bring nothing but death and defeat in the long run. If the cub wanted to spat it out over rank and hierarchy, he could find a different Prime. Not that Eldar was truly Prime anymore. Pantheon was gone. So were the Pawther civilisation and its people. The title was no more than a title, just as Eldar’s name was no more than his name. Prime’s Will meant nothing to him, yet Gereen could no longer see that, always picking fights where he could, even if he didn’t want to abandon the old ways.   
For the most part, Eldar ignored his fellow Pawther, or sated his appetite for violence in other means. Eldar rolled his shoulders deliberately, watching Gereen’s envy fall upon his second pair of arms. They may have been the same race, but Eldar was Pureblood. He was a Prime. If he wanted, he could just call upon Prime’s Will and the pup would have no choice to obey to the instinct of his Ancestors.   
The diplomat in Eldar says to spark his Will and leave already, but he knew that doing so wouldn’t solve this argument, only delay it. 

“Hand him over Eldar.”  
“Not going to happen.” 

If Gereen still upheld the old ways, then Eldar would reply in kind. “The Human is mine by right of _Dasyure._ Touch him and I’ll invoke _Camseil.”_  
The threat of “ _life-for-a-life”_ held enough weight that Gereen’s ears flattened to his head, a whine involuntarily pulled from his lips. “Fine. But keep him on a tight leash. You never know what might happen to him if he wanders far from your sight.”   
Eldar snarled furiously, not thinking as he launched himself forward. He knocked Orvis from her standing, lifting the Pawther off his feet with one hand around his throat, another on the chest plate to stop himself from strangling the _Culm_ that dared challenge him. 

“No!” Eldar said, his voice booming in the silence of the otherwise empty hangar. He chose words carefully spoken, tone slanted with a degree of finality that, no matter how hard Gereen denied them, nothing would change the outcome. “You will not raise a hand against him or it will be your death.” Eldar let his voice fill with the Will of the Prime, his eyes flashing, gold like the sun, rich in light and power. He can see the younger’s hackles raise, trying to fight the Will of the Prime, but could not.   
Eldar’s eyes flared, his irises pooling with light, a glare to Orvis when she made to stand. Under Eldar’s fury, she stilled.   
The anger was a new emotion. Eldar had only felt it this strongly for the Galra on the day that they destroyed his native planet and the kin that he shared life-blood. But never for anything else. So why this Human boy, that had intrigued him so?

The display of violence, never before revealed, shocked Gereen too. He pulled himself from the Prime’s grip, retching from the tight grasp, stuttering apology to appease his better. 

Eldar watched, quelling his own panic for an emotion he hadn’t realised was so powerful. Reined in once more, he faced Gereen. “He is under my protection, he is not your prey, nor will he ever be your prey. By my word, you cannot hunt him.” His eyes flashed again, showing the Ancillary that his word was not to be question. He was met with a growl.   
Eldar bared his teeth; leaning into the older’s space. “Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear.”   
The growing growl breaks into a whimper and Gereen unwilling bent his head, exposing his neck, tail still. His eyes still glare in forceful anger, but he can’t fight the hold Eldar has on him. Orvis flashes her eyes, a glance to Gereen’s submission and bows her head as well. She can feel the pull, as mate to Gereen, and knows if she won’t, she’ll be punished. A soldier of Pantheon cannot disobey the Will of the Prime after all. 

With their submission excepted, Eldar strode past, mindful to keep his tail still, fighting the desire motion of swiping his Ancillary off of his feet to join its mate on the floor. His anger must’ve remained on his face however, as he climbed the ramp to his ship, turning to ask of Rayon, surprised when his crewmate Ryul flinch at his words. He scrambled to tell his Prime that Brea needed more care before returning to the ships, that Kenmare and Rayon would stay with her for now and that the jet was ready to leave.   
Eldar gave him instruction to depart for the _Godolphin._

Eldar made his way to the back, securing the Human on the floor behind supplies they had picked up. It was only a two-passenger ship, leaving Eldar as Ryul’s co-pilot , but the sleeping primate wouldn’t know the difference. Which got Eldar thinking: _how long did Human sleep-cycles usually last?_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Unknown  
 **Location:** Space

Lance blinks open his eyes, sees the blank white canvas of nothing, first. Then there are lights, discerning the white-blue from a silver sheen and he is blinking at the too-bright brightness with questions in his mind. Just beyond the fluffy whiteness of peace, he can hear a faint sort of tapping. _Tap, tap, tap._  
Lance listens to the tapping, his mind letting the sound overwhelm him, focusing and abandoning all thoughts as he lets his mind drift with the tapping of… the tapping of what? He doesn’t know, and wonders idly if he _should_ know. Or, perhaps he should be wondering where he was. 

Lance feels like he is floating on a cloud. A fluffy, soft, warm cloud. Which, with all the weird things he has seen in space, isn’t something that he can rule out, without pulling all the parts of him back into his mind. It all moves slow, little threads looping and curving throughout the fabric of pictures, little tugs to place the patchwork into wonderful artwork that was his mind. Beaches, planets, faces.   
He can feel Anadón pressed against the tips of his fingers, the light feathers just out of reach as his companion breaths in and out, still sleeping, still deep in slumber. Lance wants to stay with him, stay here, just a little longer. He’s in a wonderful state of bliss. He feels warm. Safe. _Happy._  
Lance smiles to himself, thankful for a rest that didn’t have him waking, drenched in sweat, his heart beating intense in his chest as if the very thing demanded escape from this fleshy prison of his body, tormented by nightmares, distorted memories of being cast out and cast away. But no, ignore that, we’re safe here, _warm, happy, relaxed._

Waking isn’t a process he can consciously fight without rising from the dream that wraps around him. The fabric of his mind stitches back together, the puzzle pieces clinking one after another. It takes a while, because he’s still trying to ignore waking, not overly desperate to leave his cloud, but his mind managed nonetheless. Lance is still once he’s been able to figure out which way is up and which way is down. And it is not a warm fluffy cloud he finds himself lying on.  
Lance is laid in a bed, in an unknown room, predominately white and bright, but not enough that he shies away from the lights that glimmer above, beads of florescent that draw patterns in his vision when he turns away. And, just as his memory clicks into place, like an unknown missing puzzle piece, Lance remembers. He remembered the pirate ship, running, the red lights flashing, fighting, the darkness that pulled him under—

Lance sat bolt up, yanking his arms back from the confines of the white blankets, letting his body relax at the lack of restraints on his wrists. Anadón is gone and he worries, pulling at his ankles to find the same relief, his body less in-pain than he was when he was last awake. It is a relief. And another question. 

Noise caught the boy’s attention. He turned his head, not pleased with the fishbowl effect, waiting for it to pass before he located the source of the not-so-subtle cough. It was another alien, tall, crouched on the other side of the doorway to the room. They were tall enough that, even as they remained crouched, their back and horns that adorned their head, brushed against the ceiling with less than pleasant sounds. Lance felt himself swallow unintentionally. 

“So you do exist,” the stranger grinned, flashing several rows of sharp teeth towards him, a tongue pulling over their lips as the tilted their head, red eyes flickering with a light much like fire; playful. Dangerous.   
“Ryul said you were short, but he wasn’t kidding.”   
“You’re just tall,” Lance said, his mind numb to the sheer size of this Alien. They had skin much like his own, yet theirs was a deep crimson red, horns protruding from their temples, pointing backwards in smooth curves that finished in dangerous points, just like their fangs, pressing at ruby lips. A trail of spines rolled down their back in a thin line of blunted spikes, finishing before the hips and two digitigrades-legs and cloven hooves. 

Lance wasn’t able to keep himself from staring, a thought crossing his mind. Did some stick him in the wash and he’d shrunk? That wasn’t the words thing that could happen…. 

Lance stared, and kept staring. A moment of clarity made him realise the smile was replaced by a dark grimace, nose wrinkling up to reveal more teeth.   
Lance recoiled, but before he could stammer any sort of words, the other burst into laughter, and a smile once again bright on its features. “You. I like you,” they said, the smile reaching two glowing eyes. Lance squirmed where he sat, far from comfortable. “Thanks, I think.”

The boy looked around; trying to remember seeing the silver walls as part of the pirate ship he had found himself in when caught in his dead-shuttle. But having only ventured from cargo hold to corridor, to vent and back to cargo hold, Lance had little memory to compare it to. What he could remember at least.   
“Where am I?” he asked, venturing that he wasn’t a prisoner due to the lack of restraints that had bound him the last time he found himself at the hands of the Pirates. And even if the red giant, squashed yet still intimidating, was meant to be his guard, Lance only felt companionship from them, like they were trying to be friends. He hoped that was what they wanted, and not a mid-morning snack. 

“Prime brought you back,” the Alien offered, the smile smaller now. Warmer, like a flickering hearth, not a roaring bonfire.   
“If you think you can walk, you come see him. He’s out in the main hall. Or I think that’s where I last saw him.” There was something to the inflection of the tone, but Lance wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just the way they spoke, like they were always speaking with insinuation. But whatever they were hinting at, Lance couldn’t grasp, his mind still a little caught on _not a prisoner._ Well, at least he wasn’t being treated like one, and he’ll take that over whatever the others had planned for him. 

“Who is Prime,” he asked, slow as his body manoeuvred the necessary arrangements for climbing from the bed and not tripping into the wall beside him. He used it as a support though, blinking away the nausea that swelled inside him like an unwanted birthday balloon. He was really groggy. _How long had he been out?_  
A part of his head was thankful he was still fully clothed. He even has his shoes on, and it’s mildly uncomfortable, but it’s better than being caught in nothing but his skin.   
“Prime brought you to us,” their warden supplies. They turned on their haunches, shuffling backwards away from the doorway. None of Lance’s his instincts screamed danger, so he was happy to follow, slowly, staring about him as they went. 

The alien kept peeking over their shoulder sporadically, as if double checking that Lance was following, probably not thinking to listen out to the echoing of his footsteps. But they got slowly harder to discern from the others, the longer they walked – Lance was walking, the Alien doing an awkward crawl/shuffle where they were forced to remain bent in the low-ceiling hall. He was, amused at the way this creature moved, just like he had in the ship’s air ducts, earning themselves little remarks from the other crew that they passed.  
When their eyes fell upon Lance, their smiles vanished, more curious looks instead and little whispers behind poorly raised hands. Lance tucked himself close to the hip of his guide, ignoring the smile sent their way for his unconscious movement. 

They had more room once they reached the end of the corridor, moving swiftly to stand. Lance stopped in awe.   
The room was as larger than the Castle’s dining hall, the ceiling stretching up high, letting his companion stand at full height, stretching out and popping their bones from the tightness of the smaller corridor. The walls were smooth white, rippling in and out as climbers of bright green spilled like waterfalls from shelves. Trees and bushes sprouted in varying distance, bright greens and blues, golds and oranges.   
Lance could hear water, and wasn’t surprised that, upon reaching the main area he was stood on the edge of a swimming pool; smoothly curving into the floor. Fish flitted about, but the main residence was a mermaid, turned away from Lance as she spoke to another alien. At Lance and his companion’s arrival, their words stopped and they turned, only to stare, as did many of the other crew that were busy, passing through the hall only to stop and stare. 

“Your face is broken,” says the tall alien. Lance just nods. “It’s so…”   
“Marvellous isn’t it.” The Human turns, searching for the familiar voice, up to a walkway three floors up. Stood beside a balcony, looking down to Lance is the Blue Pawther that sparred against him. _Eldar,_ memory supplies.   
Lance nods numbly, turning back to stare up at the expanse of stars that shine in from a vast window in the ceiling. _Beautiful._  
He’s not overly aware of the conversation that flits back and forth over his head. 

“Sorry,” the giant trills, looking between Human and Alien, although their grin tells Eldar they are anything _but_ sorry. “Ryul wouldn’t stop talking about your… well, _him._ And I’m not saying I wasn’t curious, so I went to see for myself.” Eldar nodded. “Yes. I’ve heard that Ryul has been talking nonstop since we both returned. All of the crew in fact,” he grumbled, but he didn’t sound angry. The Giant grinned. “I don’t know what you mean.”  
“Of course not Foci. You’re just lucky you didn’t get your horns stuck again,” Eldar grumbled, but he wasn’t angry. “I didn’t. And I found him when he was waking.”   
“Yes, I thank you. Bring him to me?” It’s a request, and Foci replies.   
Lance too slow, his awareness still addled by waking, doesn’t realise that the _‘him’_ is himself, and cries out when Foci’s hand wraps around his body, holding him steady. They trap him in their grip, the audience laughing at the way he’s picked up like a doll. They’re laughter isn’t unkind - they’ve all experience the same treatment from the _Godolphin’s_ resident Rabbi, knowing the Human would soon be subjected to the same, watching as he flails in Foci’s grip, lifted to the _three-stories-up_ walkway where Eldar waits patiently. “It saves us having to use the stairs,” he smiles once Lance is beside him. Kneeling on the floor, but nonetheless, beside him.   
Lance does that numb nod thing again, not daring to open his mouth because he’s not sure words are what will fall out. Its either that or his stomach. 

“You’ve been asleep a while. I had no idea Human sleep-cycles lasted so long.”   
Lance still doesn’t reply, focusing on slowing his heart-rate, swallowing repeatedly to keep his insides _in._ He’s not scared of heights, not at all. Damn, he rode thousands of roller-coasters back on Earth, he’s flown the simulators, piloted ships. Shit, he’s used too-many-to-count, high vantage points for recon and sniper missions when he was fighting beside the Paladins. Maybe the reflux of nausea was ode to the fact that he was just treated like a child’s play toy. The idea didn’t settle well with him. 

It took a while for Lance to realise Eldar was still talking to him. “—could go and get Tho’xemae. He might be able to help. I know he wasn’t able to do much while you were asleep, but there’s obviously still something ailing you.” Eldar was holding him up too, keeping him on his feet. _Huh? When did he find his feet?_  
Lance knows he need to reply to Eldar, but words, mouth, brain, body won’t work and Lance just grunts, and arm flail pulling him away from the hands that hold him. 

Eldar leans in, scowls, and pulls away. “Foci go and find Tho’. Tell him to meet me in my quarters. I’ll need him to look at…” His eyes returned to Lance once more, the boy having enough awareness to figure out that Lance still didn’t know his name. But when he tried to give it, instead he vomited. _Ah shit._  
“—don’t think that’s normal,” he heard, his body heavy. He was back on the floor again. “—get Tho’ _now!”_  
“‘M good, I’m good,” Lance said, pushing the buzzing from his head, “I just moved too quickly, made me dizzy,” he explains, schooling his voice normal. But despite his wishes, everything lurched, instinct telling him _“grab.”_ Lance didn’t have anything, and his body fell back to the floor. He stared up to the never ending ceiling.   
Concussions were bitches, but the dizziness would fade as quickly as it came. 

It wasn’t long before he was standing once more; two hands on something warm and solid. He holds tighter. It was better than falling on the floor again. He’s convincing Eldar he didn’t need to see a medic or a Tho’ or whatever. There were more eyes watching him now, not just semi-guilty Foci. The curious happy smiles he could live without.   
“Keep an eye on him Prime,” they said, turning to scowl at the others, fingers pointing to a particularly too-close Bo’ Hunt. “Dart, go fetch Tho’. You’re quicker and it saves me crawling again,” they say; voiced with and authorative tone. “Besides, I’ve got something to discuss with Ryul.” 

They left, heading along the hall, leaving Eldar alone with his newly awakened Human, the crowds dispersing as quick as the concussion’s side effects. The Bo’ Hunt was the first to leave, even if Lance tried insisting he didn’t need anyone else poking and prodding him. “I just need to sit and catch my breath.”   
“Have you lost it?” Eldar says, somewhat concerned, which makes Lance smile. “No. It’s not lost. Just hiding.” 

Eldar was left to muddle over the Human’s words, pulling him to stand once more nonetheless, declaring that his quarters were private and more comfortable than the Light Hall. Lance was able to walk unaided, returning to the small halls, these too narrow for Foci to follow. Maybe that was what Eldar meant when he said _“private.”_  
They didn’t interact with the other crew they passed, silently making their way to Eldar’s quarters. But Lance noticed that as they passed, the others held a limb under their chin in a salute sort of fashion. With the proud way he walked, and the way the other crew treated him, Lance assumed that Eldar was the one in charge.

“How are you feeling now?”  
They were sat across from one another in cushioned armchairs, a table between them that held drinks and food, brought for Lance. “Better,” he said around a mouthful of Nutrient Squares that reminded him of flapjacks, but the taste was beef soaked in gravy. Odd, but delicious.   
“It was only the blow to the head that did it. Then getting up and walking around so soon wasn’t a good idea.” Eldar nods, but Lance is sure he doesn’t know what the Human is talking about. He’s not up for explaining a concussion, so switches gears. “So, how long was I asleep for?” Eldar frowned again, but didn’t comment on it. “More than I expected. Three Quintant by my counting,” came his planned reply. “You have been awake before, but not enough that you were aware of your surroundings. Lance nods. “Not too bad, I guess.”   
He smiled, letting the taste of his fifth Nutrient Square wash over his tongue, sighing as he relaxed into the back of his chair. 

They lapsed back into silence once more, Lance staving off devouring the remainder of the food, Eldar letting his eyes fix on some point far away from here. The awkwardness was heavy, but not stifling, yet Lance couldn’t handle it for too long, clearing his throat deliberately. The Pawther turned to him. “Yes?”  
“So what now?” Lance couldn’t help but ask. Eldar’s eyes swivelled over to him, ears perked, brow raised in questioning.   
“I mean, I’m here now, I wasn’t tied up or anything, you treated me, but what comes next. What do you want of me?” Lance said, frowning at his own words, the squares now ash in his mouth. “Because I get it, nothing comes free, and I can’t figure out if you’re helping me for another reason; or if this is…” Lance waved his hand to fill in the blanks, not really sure how to word his question. 

Eldar doesn’t know how to answer it. His eyes moved to Lance’s hand, watching fingers scratch at the back of his hand. He can smell the sharpness of fear, not yet salt and brine, but a duller, distant ache that has settled deep into this boy that it is almost him in its entirety. The sweetness of berry juices lingers, fractional, but the smell is fading, leaving an emptiness that sits uncomfortable on Eldar’s skin. His ears twitch, his nose turned away as he thinks. _What… does he want?_

“A proposition,” he settled with, his tail shuddering involuntarily.   
The Pawther leans forward, his hand tight in fists, opening and closing as he thinks through the words he wants to say. “You are a strong fighter, I’ve already seen that when the two of us met strikes. You were easily able to hold your own, even if you were injured. You have the mind, and body of a warrior,” he said slowly, eyes looking anywhere but to the boy. Lance was looking elsewhere too, squirming under the praise that sent pleasant little tingles down his spine. 

“I know you want the same as I; an end to the war with the Galra. I know this because you are a Paladin of Voltron—”  
“Were,” Lance says before he can stop himself. He looks to Eldar with wide eyes for a moment, then forces his gaze before Eldar can meet his eyes. “Were,” Eldar says, tasting the words on his tongue. Bitter. Sad.   
“Then now, you are searching. For something. For somewhere.” 

Eldar looked up then, eyes searching for permission to continue. Lance didn’t silence him, so he took that as consent.   
“I’ve been thinking. About what you said,” he began, “about Home and Family.” He smiled to himself, a small chuckle and, “just a few Dobosh talking to you and you’ve made me revaluate myself and my crew. And I realise that, although none of my blood-kin remain, I care for those that fly with me. We stand together, wanting revenge from the Galra who destroyed our homes, and we all stand together as part of an alliance to stop the Galra where we can. But this here,” he says a hand waving to the room and all around. “This ship is my home now. And those I fight beside are my family.”

Their eyes meet. “My proposition is that you join us, fight alongside us. If we cannot offer what you’re searching for, then you are free to leave. You are not a prisoner here.” 

Lance just felt himself staring, his head not sure of what to make of the words. But Eldar was… a pirate right? Allied with Ovule and those that attacked the Trigamon, himself and Keith on _Torous._ “But you have been plundering ships and attacking vessels. We were sent to stop you because you—”  
“Not us,” Eldar said firmly. “Not my ship. We’re trying to help fix the Universe, not break it anymore than it already is. Those parlour tricks are Gereen and Ovule’s games. Roamer, only if she deems the consequences favourable, but her purpose is never to harm the civilians, but for strategic reasons.”  
“So attacking the Cargo Ship in the _Nairn_ System. That was strategy?” Eldar tensed slightly, his eyes now on the floor. “That was a… false attack. The Trigamon are our allies. They sent out a distress beacon to pull your attention from my crew passing. We were making a trade with the Daratrine. They’re particularly shy, not wanting to draw the attention of the Galra or Voltron. They’ve managed to stay on the sidelines of the war so far, and they intended to stay that way as long as possible.”   
Lance frowned a little at that. Voltron only aimed to protect, not force others to fight for them. But then, the Voltron Coalition did ask for planets to stand with them. Maybe the Daratrine thought that staying out of the way would decrease their losses. 

The Pawther cleared his throat again, steeling himself to look at Lance, who met his gaze. “You are strong. You fight the same fight, I’m asking you to join us.” He pointed to the wall, to the shelves imbedded in it, above the space of his bed. On it sits a holo-screen, playing a slideshow of photographs. “I fight for my old family and new. For both revenge and security. Even if you are no longer a soldier of Voltron, I feel you have not given up the fight. And I want you by my side.” 

_He… wants me?_  
Lance stared, his head emptier than before. This was what he wanted, right? This was what he was looking for; a place to belong, somewhere where he was wanted, needed by someone, still allowed to fight in this war he wasn’t about to turn his back on… 

“Yes, I will fight with you.”


	18. A Want To Be Accepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is accepted quickly as one of the Solnha Pirates. He learns to fight, getting stronger, faster as he progresses. He has a new family, new friends and a happiness he’ll never give up. He’s home.

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Nix

“You’d think, being this the twenty fourth time that we’ve fought one another, you would have learnt to dodge the third stick by now,” Eldar chuckled softly, leaning down to offer an empty hand to the Human that lay on his back before him.   
“You’d think… that after twenty four spars… you’d stop using the same trick,” Lance panted, his reply pushed with a smile. He grabbed the offered hand, allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet. He rubbed the point between shoulder and clavicle where the top of Eldar’s Kali stick had prodded him, for the third time in this match alone. It’s not so much sore as it is a dull ache that makes for wanting the cryo-chamber all the more prominent.   
Lance doesn’t bring attention to it though, so neither does Eldar. “Why would I drop a move that wins me the match every time?”  
“I don’t know, but I’ll hold out till you get round to thinking of something better.” 

Eldar’s rumbling laugh greeted Lance’s ears, looking up catching the same widening grin. He let the older give him his customary once over, because as Eldar insisted, Lance was still fragile, even if he was a tough warrior. Lance let him. Not to avoid argument, but it made him feel… _cared for._ It was soothing. 

“At least my faults are good for training.”   
“At least that’s something,” Eldar agreed, a spiteful little grin sent to Lance, jumping back before Lance could hit him with his bo again. 

They took up marks across from each other, ready to continue their spar.   
The score, three-one in Eldar’s favour, would last another four rounds before they retired. They ended in equally divided victories, before Foci decided that they would interrupt Prime and their new Human crewmate. They had finished helping the other’s fix the damages dealt to the _Godolphin’s_ main engine after their recent unexpected scuffle with a small Galra Patrol unit, and thought they’d come annoy those that had expertly avoided participating in chores. Prime was exempt, simply because he was in charge, but Lance the Human had pulled the Pawther into play fighting just to rid himself the duty of getting dirty in the ship’s mechanics. 

“I’m pretty sure Tho’xemae said you shouldn’t be moving too quickly for another two days,” they said to Lance on arrival, a red finger directed to his left ankle that was still wrapped tight in the support he was concealing from Eldar, underneath his boot – a souvenir from the Galra, and first scar as part of the Solnha, where a cryo-pod wouldn’t take the skin blemish from him.   
Lance had mourned his complexion for a moment, lamented to Anadón who understood, telling Lance he had to get stronger if he wasn’t to be injured again. But Eldar had said it was a rite of passage. Better war to leave a shallow mark on his skin than a deep mark on his heart. He knew little of Lance’s battle upon leaving the Paladins, but accepted him quickly into his ranks.   
So had the crew, and although it took a movement: of curious eyes and hushed murmurs to follow him wherever he walked, there were those brave enough to speak. Foci, for a start, who had adopted Lance like a pet hamster, constantly picking him up and sitting him on their shoulder. 

Eldar flashed a grimace when he understood what Foci had said, rounding on Lance before he had a chance to raise his arms in self-defence. “You told me that Tho’ said the injury was nothing. Skin deep and as you said; _“no cause for concern”.”_  
“And I told you the truth,” Lance lied, knowing such details were detected by the betrayal of his fluttering heartbeat. Eldar scowled and Lance sighed in admission. “Alright fine, it was a half-truth. The cut was skin deep, but when it got pinned in the wreckage I may have pulled a muscle.”  
“Well you shouldn’t have,” Eldar scolds, as if saying not to pull a muscle would miraculously fix everything.   
Lance just sighed again, shrugging because that’s all he thought of doing. “Look I know, I’m meant to be resting it or whatever. But I sitting still when all I have to do is push through the pain. Blame it on the ADHD or something.”

“Another of your Human magic,” Eldar grumbled under his breath, already familiar with the Human’s ability to see through the spiritual planes, to greet creatures from home and beyond. _‘Anadón’_ was one such guest that frequented enough that the entire crew knew they had another crew member onboard. Yet Eldar wasn’t a fan of him, or his words. He had overheard their conversations before, one-sided as Eldar was not able to pierce the veil like Lance. But he’d heard him, caught him plenty of times sitting at Delphi’s pool, sitting at the water, asking Anadón if fighting as a Solnha was permanent, or if he should start looking over his shoulder in case they tried to kill him.   
Eldar didn’t need to smell Lance’s fear to know it was there, in the way he curled his body up small, gently rocking back and forth as he peered down at his reflection, the rippling of his tears the only disturbance in the mirror’s surface. Even if all he could hear were Lance’s words, he was able to surmise the others speech well enough to understand what was being said. They often spoke of different things, but always, _always,_ would return to the question of belonging. Home. Safety. _Purpose._  
And Lance, with soft tones and a hundred apologies, would try to reassure the pair of them that even if he wasn’t wanted by the Paladins, even if he could never return home, that they had found a family with the crew of the Godolphin.

Each time, Eldar dare not to interrupt. He would give the boy his privacy. Sometimes it was harder. Some nights, when too many tears were wept and names were cried out in dreams, Lance wakening others until they woke him, some nights when his screams would fill the halls, haunting and painful that everyone feared the enemy that was hurting their newest brother.   
He tried to keep it hidden. He tried to stop the veil from dragging him to the other side, but when he slept, his mind couldn’t hold onto his body.   
Lance would forgo sleep when he was able, and even if he told Tho’ it was normal for Humans, Eldar could hear the lie. 

Lance stayed with Eldar often after that, after one night of waking him from the trembling that shook his body and drained him of warmth. He had been cold, actually physically cold to the touch, and restless and twitchy and frighteningly panicked. The intrinsically of his being, his scent and smell and touch was cold and bitter, stormy and painful in drastic contrast to the weak and fragile boy that lay in the bed, begging for the voices to leave him alone. Zarkon’s name fell from his lips over and over, Eldar fearing that the boy having already come face to face with the Galra Monster in this reality and not the Veil’s.   
And unable to leave him, even after he had woken from the nightmares, after Eldar had called out his name, gripped his shoulders and had his wrists grasped in return, the shaking hurting deep into his core until his bones ached and his mind wailed for peace; when the blood that poured from the cuts of digging fingernails in to his own flesh and the steady _drip drip dripping_ of Lance’s nose, Eldar simply gathered the boy in his arms, held him close as he had when taking the boy from _Rexx-Marth._  
Lance’s arms had wrapped deftly around Eldar’s back, hands gripping the fur of his lower shoulder blades, neck bared as he rested his forehead upon Eldar’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like baring his neck and baring his vulnerability to Eldar was as natural as breathing. 

Now, the boy slept in Eldar's bed most nights, which wasn't exactly unwelcome but it was a memory Eldar never thought he’d revisit; remembering the times when his brothers and sisters did it themselves during the time when they sought out Eldar’s warmth to chase the nightmares away. 

The second time they had lain together, Lance just drifted towards the bed naturally after a long day of sparring and talking with the crew, questioning already known information and supplying his own after recovering his supplies from Gereen’s ship. They had been conversing late in Prime’s private quarters, Lance yawning and curling into the covers as if it was his own, leaving Eldar to delegate himself, respectfully, to the long stretching couch that he used to entertain others with quiet conversation, free from snooping eyes or ears.   
He hadn’t been sleeping when the soft padding of bare feet, the smooth of the sheets dragging on the floor came to his side, a hand on his shoulder as Lance, sleep-deprived, tired and wanting, reached down and curled fingers into Eldar’s hand. His colour was yellow, not sun-yellow or gold-yellow, but pale and sickly and dark and murky; saturated of colour and happiness. _Fear._   
Longing burned within him too, beneath the grief and hope of warmth, so touch-starved after being abandoned for family that he was unapologetic to tell Eldar so, gripping tighter on the wrist he had found and locked in his hold. 

_“Eldar,”_ he had whispered, pulling a little too heavy on his arm, _“Eldar, come to bed. Its cold and I can’t sleep. Come keep the night terrors away, please?”_ It had sounded vulnerable and earnest and child-like, spoken quietly but a strange determination that Eldar couldn’t say no. He didn’t think he could, even if he wanted to, but he didn’t want to, he wanted to help Lance heal from the scars his family had left upon his heart.   
And Eldar had joined the boy, together in his own bed where they curled up, side by side facing one another as arms held him tight, legs interlinked in a way that was greatly more intimate than that of the way he lain with his kin.   
And if Eldar spent moments like these to watch the boy sleep, to admire the way his nose curved, a dusting of dark spots, not prominent enough for camouflage or discerning marks; watch the way his lips curl up as the yellow brightens and softens into something mellow and relaxed… Well, then that was his secret to keep. 

It became routine, for Lance to join Eldar in bed or Eldar to crawl in after, to let Lance slot perfectly in his arms. And when the night terrors came and Eldar couldn’t fend them off, he’d talk soft, letting the gentle gravel of his voice fall upon desperate ears that told him, he was loved, he was needed, he was perfect just the way he was. And if he wasn’t strong enough to stand alone, then he had his family to stand with him. 

They hadn’t really talked about the nights they spent together. _“Perhaps it’s a Human thing,”_ Tho’ reasoned after Prime’s queries of skin ship. When the questions were directed to Lance, Eldar thought he had made a mistake, smelling the burning of brine upon his nose, regret coiling in both their stomachs as Eldar assured the boy he’d done nothing wrong. He just wanted to know why.

_“It’s because… well, because I like you,”_ the Human blurted out, his face suddenly a shocking pink as they stand in Eldar’s quarters, ready to turn in for the night. But Eldar had asked and Lance decided to answer.   
_“Your face,”_ is all Eldar can say before Lance is burying it in his hands, shoulders trembling from an overload of emotion. He sees the skin colouration that forces the boy’s ears pink, the notion creeping down his neck as he buries his face and bares his neck in submission.   
The Daratrine were another who displayed their emotion in the pigmentation of their skin. Bright is happy, dark is angry. The longer Eldar watches, he can differentiate the tones of honey brown and the tinge of Pantheon Blooms. It’s contradictory, whereas in the colour is bright and beautiful upon the boys’ skin much like happiness should be, but it is shockingly vivid.   
_Anger,_ Eldar thinks unable to rely on the smell that chokes him, hearing the pained-panic of quickened heartbeats.   
But the body language Lance displays is different. He hides his face, which drops down, his gaze broken and the shaking, which is not related to the movement of the _Godolphin_ engine, signifies fear.

But which it is, Eldar can’t read because Human ears don’t twitch and turn like Pawther’s do and he can smell too much, he can’t understand what is true, what is lingering and what is his own: burnt electricity of fear, wood-smoke that doesn’t smell of wood, but flesh, charred and rotten and burnt, the pungent smell of fear-pain-anger-regret-despair-emptiness—

Regardless, Eldar wraps his arms around the boy that stands before him, trembling; holds him, rocks him in his arms, lets the softness of his voice wash over him as he feels the walls begin to crumble and Lance is holding on, just as tight, just as gentle. 

Eldar couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had fallen, but he knew the moment he had accepted that falling had been inevitable. 

He had seen his father kiss his mother once. Light. Soft. Lips on lips, tails intertwining in the privacy behind woven veils of bleached sunlight, filtering in as rich as silver and gold. It had been private, intimate and entirely blissful, Eldar lucky to witness the love in that single moment, jealous and wanting for another ever since he’d seen the shared emotions. He had searched, but harder to find a love when all they saw was his title, his position as heir to power and an opportunity for their own wealth to expand in surplus. 

Eldar never thought he’d find someone to share his heart, but in the moment when he pressed his lips to Lance, soft and gentle, he was hopeful that they’d share precious moments of their own. They had built up to it, easing into more serious conversation about themselves, Eldar noticing the careful touches of lingering fingers that told him the kiss, the fall, the love, was simply inevitable.   
And when Lance kissed him back, Eldar was just enthralled by everything. The honey-light, sun-soaked softness, warm electric, rose-pink love that Lance felt and Eldar felt too. 

Eldar couldn’t pinpoint the moment he had fallen, but he knew the moment he realised he had and would never want for more.   
And bowing to his emotions, letting himself fall further, faster, letting Lance hold him as they fell together, Eldar learned the true meaning of loving another. Overtime, he learnt the true meaning of Lance’s magic too, of his fears and the past that warped this boy’s warm and loving heart. 

Eldar learnt of the boy’s feelings, of the meanings of each rich scent that he smelt, watering his eyes and burning his throat. Anger, bright hot and painful would suffocate him, making it hard to breathe, hard to see. The sadness was empty and never-ending, a void inside him as dark and endless as space itself. Happiness was bright and warm, like fruit and sugar, the taste of fresh air and the scent of fresh flowers in the sun.   
Lance was a rainbow of emotion, all summer-rain and whiskey eyes, soft and sweet-spice. But then he’s thunderstorms and engine fuel, wood-smoke and blood. He is red in anger and black in pain. He is blue and yellow and green. He is warm like the burning sun to his family, but cold and ruthless to anyone that wishes to hurt them. Even if the days have been few, Lance was fiercely loyal to this make-shift family or renegade pirates that he had all but accidently stumbled upon, to those that have welcomed him with open arms and open hearts. 

“Prime, are you listening?” 

Eldar looked up, unaware he’d let his mind wander while Foci and his _Arenphine_ talked, watching the pair’s matching eyebrow, raised, the smiles pulling at their lips that said they knew Eldar not to be paying attention. Foci’s eyes danced with the light of mischief, meaning they had been up to their usual trick, spreading rumours again. Or, maybe _‘gossip’_ was the better term, considering Lance and Eldar had already been outed for their mutual feelings and romantic intimacy, despite their lack of requirement for publicity.   
It had been entertainment for the crew, to watch their stoic and charming Captain led around by the nose by the small Human, doe-eyed and oblivious to the knowing smirks, the passing of bets as Ryul turned the entire affair into a game, not then knowing that Lance and Eldar had confessed their hearts beat the same.   
Lance, embarrassed, permeating the air with the smell of stale bread, sour fruit and a need to hide him away from eyes, simply pretended himself oblivious to the captain’s affection towards him. 

But such games were not to be played against Foci, who had confronted the small Human one night, whilst he had perched on their shoulder and they walked across the endless black desert of _Nix,_ following the light of the moon, lighting the path for large feet to tread.   
They had asked him why he didn’t refuse the Chief’s advances, or why, if by chance he felt the same, he didn’t take it upon himself to push their bond further and consummate their feelings with the act of copulation. Lance had almost fallen at their remark. Well, he fell enough to be caught, breathing out a shaky _‘thank you,’_ before slipping into disconcerting silence.   
Foci had been worried they had broke him, spending several Varga apologising and talking about maybe Humans were different and didn’t mate, or bond with other’s to find a life partner. Their own people preferred the _‘Company of All,’_ and such practices weren’t as well understood by the vast species Foci had met on their travels.   
Maybe Humans wanted none, and popped out the ground like flowers in the Warm Season. Lance had laughed at that. _“Sorry Foci. I just, got lost in thought.”_

When Lance first told them it had happened, after a long moment of silence and a glassy look in his eyes, Foci had rushed him to Tho’, the Solnha’s resident medical healer. After much explaining, and promising Tho’ that his head was fine, Lance had swiftly evaded being prodded and poked for the alien’s very serious _“research purposes.”_ Not that Tho’xemae didn’t get his way, and had called Lance to the medical wing for countless excuses, just for a chance to poke at the little meat sack, all in the name of _“science.”_

Foci wasn’t the only one to overreacted when it came to their friend, the little Human, having heard the chaos he caused when found “swimming” with Delphi in her pool. Poor Dart thought him to be drowning, and it earned the Bo ‘Hunt spotlight at dinner with Uilt’xen and Or’ retelling the tale of how he pitifully wailed and attempted to “save” the Human.   
But Lance had thanked him, and thanked them all for caring. It was his own little quirks and differences that caused many a misunderstanding, all for which he apologised for, even when the boy’s odd phrasing would catch them off guard. Just as Foci had worried for Lance, and he explained to them that, _“lost in thought”_ translated roughly to _“I turned off my Auditory and Visual Senses so that I could focus on the memory of Auditory and Visual Senses within my head.”_ Something about how Humans’ only had access to half of their brain, if they had heard it right.   
It was an odd notion, and after hearing it, Foci had rifled through their own head, seeking out any unknown dark spots, yet had come up empty. 

_“But about Eldar.”_ Because they were persistent and not at all one with the idea of patience. And Lance had let himself speak, his voice holding different notes of uneasiness and maybe pain. Or was it fear?  
 _“I don’t love him. Not like I have with others, but I think I’m capable of loving him. That if this between us continues it would become something… precious to me… and that thought is terrifying.”_ He had looked to Foci with pleading eyes, searching for something. _“There are things I want to say and things I can’t, myself being too scared and he… He is too important to be dragged down by me. I left my family once as not to be a burden for them, and I fear that I will become a burden for Eldar. But to deny him will hurt him and I can’t do that either.”_

_“But you love him.”_  
“Not yet.”   
“It sounds like you already do, and the only one who doesn’t realise is you.” 

The words had brought colour to the Human’s cheeks and a glistening to his eyes, but further questioning had proved ineffective. They were both called back to the ship; Lance quick to slip away, to the small corridors that wouldn’t allow Foci to follow.   
They had gone to Ryul instead. Ryul was another of the crew who were brave enough to talk to Lance within the first movement of him joining the crew, and although the Balmeran was Eldar’s best pilot, he was also the worst shipmate for gossip. He had a worse habit of betting than Pidge – to him _anything_ was acceptable. Lance had lost all pairs of his socks in the first week, but considering the ship ran warm most days, it was nicer without the extra layers. Besides, it was one less to strip off when he went for a swim in the pond with Delphi. She enjoyed sharing her pond with Lance, after many aliens expressed their desire to stay dry – except Foci but they were too big to swim.

Sometimes Ryul was as odd as the Human and odd in himself for leaving his home when family had warned him not so.   
Eldar had offered him place upon the ship after saving the Balmera from the Galra within the Phoeb of his own planet’s destruction. Onboard for nearly the longest just like Foci, the pair had taken a liking to one another; Ryul for his cheekiness, Foci for their size. And their shared blatant curiosity to other people’s affairs. 

So Ryul became invested when he heard that the Prime and the Human’s hearts beat the same, but Lance allowed his fear to hold him back. And it had been Ryul’s idea to talk to Lance, to give him the idea of inviting Eldar to spar. It would show his own willingness to fight, to get stronger and it would allow them time together to bond. And hopefully to show the Human that love, no matter what kind, for family or for a lover, it would make them all stronger.   
And even as days came and passed, battles won, not many losses to count or ships to repair, the two had become closer than expected. 

Lance was special to Eldar.   
As Prime of Pantheon, he wouldn’t have been able to choose a mate of his own, instead court only the strongest females for the near moon-cycle. They would have lain together and only mate to the Doe that was first to bear him a son, love a by-product of repeated copulation.   
Now, free from his duties, Eldar had been free to choose Lance, and Lance had chosen him back. 

Their spars had been enchanting.   
Foci and the crew had watched many, watching their fluid movements, the smiles they wore and worry under boasting smiles when blows were met and bruises bloomed on bare skin, each movement give and take as they stood on equal footing.   
The awkward invitations for rematches and excuses to spend time together, had become obsolete overtime. Now it was rare to find them not in one another’s company if there was not a Galra ship or a call for Eldar’s attendance as Captain of _Godolphin._

Foci crouched, moving down to hear them better, already bickering like nest-mates.   
“And I thought I told you that you had to listen to Tho’. We’re not at the liberty to provide the same medicine, we don’t have cryogen chambers like you’re used to, so injuries need resting. Even small ones,” Eldar was saying, ever the softie when it came to his _Arenphine._  
“And I told you,” Lance said, his tone tilted in jest, yet still held determination and weight. “Humans don’t heal by rest and recuperation. We push through it and it makes us faster, stronger and quicker to heal what hurts beneath the skin.”   
“It hurts?” Lance flinched at his mistake but waved it off with a movement of his upper appendages. “No more than the ache of working muscles. I’m _fine_ Eldar.” 

Foci watched them with their smile, eyes darting back and forth between Lance, who didn’t want to be told what to do, and Eldar torn between helping his _Arenphine_ heal, and letting his _Arenphine_ do as he wanted. 

“How about I take him?” Foci smiled, taking the spotlight themselves. Eldar looked to them, then back down to Lance. Whilst his gaze was averted, Foci tilted their head, and winked to the Human. He grinned back, moving closer before Eldar had a chance to stop him doing so. “Foci,” he said tersely, turning his attention to the Rabbi, but he was cut off when Foci started talking. “Ryul mention something about seeing the Black Cliff, and I already promised Lance to take him to see the Salt Lakes. We haven’t been on _Nix_ for a while, and with the repairs still underway, we have no schedule to keep.”  
“But the damage—”  
“Cannot be fixed by me anymore than you can tell Lance to rest,” they crooned, holding out a hand for the Human, letting him climb on before lifting it to their shoulder, where Lance clambered, tucking an arm around one of their head-tails, securing himself when Foci resumed standing, waving the twenty foot difference down to Eldar. “Don’t worry; I’ll keep weight off of my foot. We’ll return before the sun falls, in time to eat.”   
Neither the Rabbi nor the Human gave their Captain any say in the matter, as Foci headed away from the sparring ring and the construction of the tent– Lance had made it after he’d brought up the idea of camping and Eldar was eager to try the custom. 

They headed down the mountainside, the journey greatly shortened by the reach of Foci’s legs, back to the flood plains where the _Godolphin_ sat, depressed and damaged, not greatly so, from their last encounter with the Galra. It was still in the middle of being repaired and wouldn’t be moving for two Quintant Cycles by Uilt’xen’s calculations. They spied Ryul returning to his transport craft, calling out to question if he was returning to Torous for another supply run. “No, I’ve got everything.”   
“We’re heading to the Black Cliffs, did you fancy tagging along?” Any chance of bailing on upcoming duties was gladly welcomed, and soon Ryul was perched on Foci’s other shoulder, holding onto head-tail as the Rabbi bounded across the desert, kicking up the black sand as they went.   
It resembled their native-planet, also destroyed by the Galra for their need of Quintessence, but no sadness was felt as they covered Decca-Jumps in leaps and bounds that had Ryul and Lance yelling in joy. They laughed too, using their tail for balance, leaning further forward and sprinting to the sun that set the horizon ablaze in an explosion of colour. How good it felt to run again.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Nix

“I think I’m going to have to install harnesses,” Ryul grumbled quietly, shaking off the ache of holding onto Foci’s head-tail far too tightly – he may say he’s fine but the idiot is scared of heights, just like Hunk used to be. Lance feels that all-too-familiar feeling of pained nostalgia and he pushes his mind from his distant friend, stopping himself before he can regret leaving without a word, knowing the bug guy would blame himself – he always does.   
Regret is abandoned for the hopes of holding onto his new found happiness, and Lance drops down to the black sand of Nix, trying not to stumble from the way he landed on his ankle improperly and the pain shot up through his leg. Its okay, it’s not as bad as the pain had once been in his back, and Tho’ was supplying him with a steady anaesthesia when the pain got too much for him. 

He turns back in time to watch Ryul jump from his perch, stumble and sprawl into the black sand, his head colliding with the ground with a definite _oomph._ Lance cackled to himself, reaching over to help him to his feet. “You better not. It would be funny to watch you fall flat on your ass when you roll off.” He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Foci was not listening. “Although, I agree, it’s not a bad idea, but don’t let Foci catch you talking about that. They almost bit Eldar’s head off when he asked them to carry our gear for us to build the tent. I’d hate to think what they’d do if you start treating them like a pack horse.”   
“I wouldn’t eat Prime,” Foci gasped from above, horrified at the thought of harming their Captain. _Ah,_ Lance hadn’t been quiet enough. He suppressed a grin. “It’s just am idiom Foci,” Lance waved, smiling softly up at the giant to appease them, “you know, like when I said _“it costs an arm and a leg.”_ (That in itself had been a very fun conversation, assuring the crew that he did not take appendages as payments, resulting in re-acceptance into the betting game).  
“It means that you react angrily. Not the literal act of eating someone.” Foci wrinkled their nose. “You Humans are weird.”  
“Not as weird as the Balmeran.” This earned Lance a rock-elbow to the gut. Only lightly, but it still winded him somewhat. 

“Hey, are you going to show us what has you so excited or not?” Foci asked, interrupting the pair before it could turn into a full on scuffle, and although it was endearing to watch, Foci had escaped duties of fixing the _Godolphin_ for other reasons than playing referee to two overgrown pups. “Because yes, I appreciate the run, but if you and Ryul are going to fight and fawn over rocks, I’m going to find something better to do.”   
“No, no wait, it’s over here,” Lance said, waving the pair close to him before Foci _did_ decided to venture by themselves. It would be a very long walk back to the ship if they did. “We just have a little further to go.” 

He takes the lead, pointing to the horizon, babbling about what he saw when he and Dart took the speeders out for racing, only coming close to the Black Cliffs. And they stand there now, staring down at the glittering ocean of a thousand jewels that sparkle in the glory of the sun. The wind blew hard and powerful, whipping the surface of the Salt Lakes into beautiful waves, the smell of brine strong and potent in Lance’s mind, suddenly a million stars from here, stood on the crest of the hill, looking down on his beach.   
He doesn’t think to move, or make his body stop and suddenly he’s running, ignoring the voices that call his name, launching himself off the cliff with purpose and determination that takes him down, down the cliff face over tumbling rocks to the glorious shore. 

It doesn’t matter that the water is warmer than memory serves, that instead of the shade of blueberries and the warm sky it is a wonderful blush of pink Dahlia blooms. Stretching out from the Black sand, further and further from the shore and the base of the cliffs was the Salt Lakes, as wide and stretching as its very own sea. Blushing pink and ivory white.   
The trees that stand vigil to the border of sand and sea hold the same pigmentation in their leaves, the stalks of their trunks imperfect white with rivets of silver that climb to the bending branches the sway in the breeze. 

Lance breaths in the memory, closing his eyes and letting the sounds of the ocean wash over him. He can hear the wings of, not gulls, but other avian creatures that dive to hunt for their food that swims beneath the waves. Their calls are dulcet compared to the harshness of gulls, not selfish and vicious in nature, but perfectly balanced in Nix’s cycle of returning life. Mined dead of natural minerals, the Galra had abandoned the planet, and in spite of the Empire’s power it was returning to life.

It’s nothing like the beach in the holo-room. It’s real and it’s warm, with the sun on his face and the salt-spray on his skin. It’s here and so is he, and in that moment he can breathe without the pain, even as his mind takes him back to Earth, to the beaches of Cuba. Gold sand and Azure Sea. 

“Lance, your face is leaking.”   
They’ve joined him now, Ryul on one side, Foci the other, watching as seas of his own spill from his eyes, racing silver tracks down his golden cheeks. But they were happy tears. This was happiness he felt. Unadulterated happiness. 

_{You’re lying to yourself again.}_ And there, in front of him was his companion.   
Anadón was greeting him less and less now, no longer the huge, hulking beast that stood beside him when abandoned by his friends, no longer the hip-high creature that ran around the training room of the Castle as Lance fought gladiator again and again, over and over in order to prove his place he was kicked from inevitably. The motions, not so much useless – they have served to strengthen him – but not for the Paladins but for himself so that he was welcomed by the Solnha, so that he is loved by Eldar who holds him close each night. 

Now Anadón, the only reminder of the Castle sits at his feet, a lowly shadow-cat once more, flicking his tail, with a scowl permanent upon its face. _{You’re lying to yourself and you’ll lie to everyone around you, over and over until they realise they can’t trust you. Because they don’t know you.}_  
“Now you’re the one lying, Anadón,” Lance says, opening his eyes, blinking away the sunlight as he finds the black feathers, the orange flecks of colours and bright yellow eyes that narrow. Ryul and Foci realise he is speaking to his companion and move away to give him space. It is the respectful thing to do. 

_{I’m not the one lying. I’m the one watching you repeat your mistakes,}_ he snarled. _{You may be stronger than you were as a Paladin, but that does not change the truth that you lied to the Humans.}_  
“I did not—”  
 _{You did. You never told them how you felt, how you hated the way they treated you, that all you wanted was to belong.}_

Lance glares; a flash of anger in his eye, his scent vermillion red. “I never lied. They never asked.”   
_{Because you never let them see. And you’ll do the same here. Although this time, you won’t be able to run without breaking this new… family,}_ he said; tasting the word on his tongue like it was poison. _{Eldar says he loves you, that he has given his heart and when you run – because you will run – you will wrench it from his chest and leave him broken. That is all you do Lance. You burden people or you break them.} _He feels the slight spike of fear, and Anadón, the agile hunter latches his claws into the bitter-sweet flesh of pain, biting down hard before Lance can cover his weakness with the new, real happiness he has found.   
_{They’ll fall, because of you. You, nothing more than a curse, a plague. Broken. You lie that I am magic and you, magical}_ he sneers, tearing at flesh, letting the ink-black-blood bubble and ooze from the wound that stabs Lance through his still-weak heart. _{You’re nothing but a liar and a deceiver, letting Eldar love you because you think it will make you important, thinking that his love will somehow fix the mess you are._

_{But nothing can fix you, because you’re not meant to be fixed. You were meant to die, long ago, long before you could become the chains that pull everyone down. They’re just too blind, too stupid to see the parasite you really are.}_  
“I’m not—”  
 _{ You are. Don’t even bother pretending you don’t know what you really are. You’re a parasite, a plague, a walking curse. The Paladins knew and they kept you at arm’s length, waiting for a replacement, too stupid to realise the Princess was there all along. And now, you think yourself Solnha, counting down the days until they wake up and stab the blade into your gut. And when they do, you’ll watch the black blood drip from your wounds, and show the world just how tainted you really are,} _ he spat in furious rage, before simply dissolving into the sand. 

Lance was too shocked to dispute the words, fear filling him from the wound in his heart, no longer trapped in the bars of lies he’s built around himself, hoping to save himself from the heartbreak of being abandoned again. _Again._

They had been on good terms once, his solidified darkness and him.   
But now it was back to the spiteful creature that detested Lance’s new found happiness, who bore into him every night, with dreams and visions that would pull him from sleep, wake him with a pounding heart and tears in his eyes even when Eldar held him tight and told him he loved him over and over. 

_{How can you stay here? How can you be so selfish you’ll burden the Solnha too? And you say you love the over-grown fox.}_

_{This is the Paladins all over again. Don’t come crying to me when you realise they are only using you. You’re a means to an end and the sooner you realise, the sooner we can leave, to spread our curse further.}_

No. Lance wouldn’t think about it. He was here now, closer to home. And missing Eldar.   
“I should’ve invited him too,” he said wistfully, the jewel of the ocean not so bright now, what with Anadón’s horrible words and his own poisoned-black mind. The feeling of longing, for Earth, for old-home, old-family, left him speechless, his bare feet remaining on the black sandy beach, standing amongst the roots of the white trunk trees whilst Foci and Ryul explored the shallows of the water, chasing glittering fish that were and weren’t all at once.   
Splashing in water, warmed by the sun, it was a comfort for them both, who called their friend to the water, the pink spray of waves sent in wonderful showers of spray, fragmented rainbows caught in the light of the sun all around them as he ran to join them, leaving his troubles on the sand. 

_This was his home._

Home was kicking back with Foci as he perched on their shoulder, catching up on the gossip of the crew that they had learnt that day. Home was planet-hopping with the Solnha Pirates, finding warm beaches and dense rainforests to get lost in as they searched for allies and supply lines, unattended trade routes with goods easy to swipe.   
Home was nights in the mess hall, starting food fights against Ryul and Or’, stealing food off of Ygrainne’s plate when she wasn’t looking, getting drunk with Dart. Home was swimming with Delphi in the main hangar’s pond, yelling out banter with Uilt’xen as they sat beside one another in their rail guns, shooting at the Galra that dared get close.   
Home was sat in _Godolphin’s_ empty stairwells, staring out at the expanse of stars, humming Earth songs to himself to pass the time.   
Home was with Eldar, wrapped up in his embrace as they lay in bed, the private moments they shared when the rooms were empty, the lazy kisses morning would bring. Home was the pillow talk that would take them a thousand miles from the Galra war, to a far off planet of lush plants and calm waters, where the two could just… _be._  
Home was laughing beside the one he truly, irrevocably loved, sharing the precious moments together, be it sparring or talking, or simply laying beside his sleeping form.   
Home was the passion beneath the sheets, the love and lust that pulled lascivious cries from him, kisses that stole his breath, moments that he had never felt more alive with every touch. 

Home was no longer just a ten thousand year old spaceship that found itself in the throes of war, shot at, blasted at, targeted by angry purple Aliens that wanted nothing more than to destroy the entire Universe and enslave it’s people to continue building its Empire.   
It was fighting alongside family, against the Galra, reaching for a future of peace where children wouldn’t have to grow up scared, where parents wouldn’t have to raise their arms to defend their babies. 

Home was no longer being pushed out of a friendship with Hunk, pushed to the sidelines by a better soldier, a better fighter, being ignored by the person he had always called his Hero, being looked over by the very people he cared deeply for.   
It was accepting his own faults and flaws, admitting his own incapability’s and trusting his new family to fill the holes he couldn’t. It was respecting new heroes, learning new face and names, falling in love and being loved back. 

Home was no longer being taken for granted, being a placeholder, being a seventh wheel.   
It was Lance, finding a place with the Solnha, being an important part of their integral family structure, being himself and being respected for it, loved for it. 

Home was here, being wanted, being accepted, being _needed._  
Home was here. And here he would stay.


	19. A Want To Be Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is Solnha, there is no doubt. But he still has enemies and he still has fears. But now he has a family that he trusts to stand with them when he faces them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Attempted Rape within chapter – it’s not graphic but the warning is here. It’s not in the main warning tags either because the rape is only attempted.

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Planet:** Jastra’s Orbit 

“Prime, two ships, inbound and approaching fast,” Ygrainne calls, the chirp of her voice uncertain over the ship’s internal Comms. “Identify,” the Captain ordered, not needing to issue instruction to the rest of the gathered crew who scrambled to their positions to assist Ygrainne, sending video-feeds ship wide to share what she could see. “They’re Solnha,” she says, “from Gereen’s fleet, but they’re not responding to the outgoing frequency, nor hailing us with any of our own.”   
Gereen’s men alone was a cause for unrest, but there refusal to initiate or make contact rang alarms for everyone. Eldar felt himself scowl as he rose from his Captain’s chair. “Have the crew prepare to accept the ships in the hangar, keep things as normal as possible, but I only want necessary bodies present. If these are hijacked vessels, then I want to limit our possible damage before we amount an ambush before they over-run the ship. Have Rayon and Kenmare meet me in the hangar,” Eldar said, feeling his hackles rise as he stared out at the stars, eyes catching sight of the blood-red print of paint on the copper hulls of Gereen’s jet speeders.   
They flew slowly, no flashing light to signal inoperable Comms system. _Unnerving._

Or’ stepped forward, the young Galran child calling attention to themselves before Eldar could dismiss himself from the Bridge. “Prime, Rayon and Kenmare are not on board. They are still away with Lance, picking up the newly acquired supplies from _Jastra._ They are not due to return until the next coming Varga.”   
Eldar growled to himself; although pleased his _Arenphine_ was not onboard during another visit from the fellow Pawther’s faction of unruly pirates. But he was also left without intimidating crew members to stand beside him. “Then call Ryul, Uilt’xen and Tho’xemae.” Foci was another choice, but they weren’t one for serious situations. They’d result to teasing the other crew – if it _was_ Gereen’s crew - and ultimately cause more than one argument. And with the recent increase of Galra activity and no need for anymore unrest between factions, it was something Eldar wished to avoid.   
Unexpected meetings were another as he stood in the hangar, Uilt’xen and Ryul flanking him, Foci pushed back to one side where they pretended to not pay attention – Eldar said they could stay as long as they didn’t speak. Tho’xemae kept his distance, torn between keeping Foci calm and standing beside Prime. The others gathered were _Godolphin’s_ own scientist Trigamon that had come to greet their own kind they hoped to be on board as well as a few details from his mechanic crew. There was little damage to the ship, except the obvious outer damage to the left wing of one and the laser residue on the other. 

It wasn’t the Galra who stepped from the ships, but Ovule and an envoy of his own cronies. No Gereen, no Orvis.   
Eldar let his grimace remain on Garecht before the Hasp excused himself and decided the trip was best spent confined to the cabin of one of the speeders. Mohr’s and Elmore ran to greet their Trigamon brothers while Toil remarked about better grub and let themselves be escorted away by another Thorx to the canteen. 

“What are you doing here Ovule?” Eldar said, not one for offering a formal greeting when one wasn’t needed. Ovule definitely didn’t need to be here, aboard his vessel, and the reason that he had ultimately bolstered his way on board had his hackles raised, his tail flicking in anger at the _sakaala_ that stood before him, wishing the wretched creature would just burst into flames where he stood. 

“Oh come now Eldar, is that anyway to greet your saviour?” Ovule grinned flashing his teeth, spines dancing on his head as he turned his face into a non-existent breeze, taking a deep inhale of the air. His spines stood, smoothed and straightened as he tasted for particular scents. “After all, it was my ship, piloted by myself, that drew the gunfire of those patrols, to give you enough time to finish loading the ship and escape,” he continued, as if everything was natural. His own tail lay flat to the floor, just the tip jerking from where he was restraining himself. Eldar restrained himself too. 

“You didn’t save us. And he’s not here so you can stop searching for him,” he growled, face rigid, jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding together, the instinct to protect his mate suffocating even if he was down below, top-side with the Draora Brothers.   
Still, Eldar struggles to fight the urge of launching himself across this tiny distance between them, pulling the Arroyo’s tongue from his mouth and strangling him with it. 

“He’s not?” Ovule asked, tongue licking across teeth, a mean glint in his eyes when he bared his teeth at this predator that hid his prey. “Then where.”  
“Safe from you,” Uilt’xen spat, stepping to stand shoulder to shoulder with her captain, there to defend the Human before the _sakaala_ can think to move against him. Ovule flexed a hand, his movements stilling at the echoing sound of thunder from where Foci slammed their clenched fist to the floor, reminding the lizard that they weren’t just there for decoration. The Rabbi’s action brought a wry smile to Ovule’s face, and he took a step back, scenting the air again.   
“It’s a shame you can’t order me never to touch him,” he said, grinning, teeth flashing to Eldar, ignoring the threats. “Not like you can with Gereen and my sister. And I bet that eats away at you, knowing that the only way you can truly keep him safe is to kill me, but you can’t do that either.”   
Ryul stomped his feet in anger, taking up Eldar’s other side. Ovule ignored him. “You’ll notice I came here alone. No Gereen, no Orvis to bend to your will as Prime, although how you managed to worm your way inside my sister’s brain I’ll never know.”   
Eldar didn’t supply a response. 

Ovule continued. “So I’m here alone, my only witnesses being a _Culm_ that skulks in the ship and a Thorx who has been lulled away by promise of food. If you wanted to kill me, you would have no one to stop you.”  
“Don’t tempt me,” Eldar growled, low, feral. He can still hear Lance’s screams in his head, and the memory only fuels his hatred, teeth bared in threat, a deep growl in his throat. Both predators stood apart from one another, refusing to be the first to bow. Eldar would never, not in the face of Ovule who threatened his Arenphine, openly, brashly, begging for his death and oh how Eldar wished to fulfil it.   
But he couldn’t. Because, and although how much it pained Eldar to admit, the brute was right.   
There would be no unbiased witness to either of their actions, and if Ovule’s death was the consequence of their negotiations – or whatever else Ovule had come here for – Eldar would lose standing with the remaining Solnha Faction Leaders. He didn’t care for Gereen’s thoughts of him, but dealings with Roamer and Irian would certainly be harder if they thought Eldar wasn’t above killing his own comrades because they pissed him off. 

And they needed the alliance to work. They were finally making headway, not just united under the same banner, but utilising resources to work together to take down small fleets of Galra ships, not just raiding convoys. They were attacking bases, freeing slaves and miners, taking out android production facilities, interfering with Galra communication systems to keep themselves from being overrun. 

It was Lance who pushed for the teamwork: present for one communal conference on the Bridge with the other faction leaders when the talks had dissolved into childish bickering for reasons unclear. They’d started smooth, like normal, but then came a rift and voices passed with barely restrained insult until all they were doing was fighting.   
And Lance, stupid and fed-up, had just stood up and started ranting, silencing all the other voices on the channels. He called them weak and he called them cowards, even turning on Eldar who had yet to experience the Human’s true anger. Although, it was more annoyance than anything as his tirade spieled, pointing out that raids on alien vessels were effective but that was like a _“snake eating its own tail.”_  
Before confusion could settle, he explained – in a tone much like a scolding mother – that they were meant to be rebels, standing against the Galra, not inadvertently working with them to break the universe even more.  
 _“And what, you target the aliens because they’re easier to attack? You pick the battles you know you’ll win so you don’t accumulate loss? That’s not strength, that’s cowardice! In the mean time, the Galra flood the stars with their numbers, and you fight those that could be allies in this fight._

_“Attacking the Galra, attacking a common enemy has united you but only in words. And you’re not even fighting against them properly; you’re just dancing out their reach so you all survive one day more. You’re not weakening Zarkon; you’re not even a threat to him. You’re creating your own chaos so that when the Galra finally bring a stronger force to the system, there will be no resistance.”_

Lance had told them, to their faces, red-anger, the grey stone of stubbornness upon his face as his eyes flashed with challenge. Because he had told them the truth, even if they had blindsided themselves, purposely ignored the “greater good” for another sunrise. 

Lance had told them the truth. And for once, the Solnha Alliance made a unanimous decision to follow the Humans’ advice. All ships began ignoring transport and goods vessels from the suffering planets, and turned their attention to Galra. They were taking steps to becoming a stronger force against Zarkon’s tyranny. And Eldar could not destroy that by killing Ovule, no matter how much the _dahast_ deserved it. 

“What do you want Ovule,” Eldar repeated his voice deadly silent. “Roamer already made the decision that updates and mission reports are to come through transmission, to keep our reach extended until _Genwar_ is dealt with.”   
“That is what I came to discuss. And instead of sending Roamer, who would much prefer the trip to this backwater planet, but instead sits idle on her ship, busy plotting the battle plans for our strike against _Genwar.”_  
“Against? Was the plan not liberation?” Eldar asked, wondering if new information had been brought about to change the goal of the plan, not just the logistics and the finer detail. Ovule rolled his eyes. “Liberation or annihilation, does it matter? The Galra take a stand there and we won’t allow it. So we rain fire upon them and, goodbye Galra,” the lizard smiled, once again turning his eyes to the handful of crew that remained.

“So what is so important you felt the need to hand deliver the message,” Uilt’xen snapped, not one for patience or beating around the bush. Her hand tightened on one of her mechanical tools sitting on her hip belt, obviously envisioning bludgeoning the Arroyo to death.  
Ovule fixed her a look that dared her to try it. “Irian’s son got hold of some information after attacking a scouting patrol on the border of the _Talladega_ System. They were scouting the flight plan for a shipment of sentries being sent to help keep order at _Genwar._ Apparently the imprisoned Hycis keep revolting, and Roamer wants to scramble your fighters to take out the ships before they reach the borders of the Galra’s station in the orbit of _Genwar.”_

“And that’s important enough for you to board my ship and tell me?” Eldar growls. He hasn’t felt this unsettled in a while, even if Lance isn’t on board and it bugs the hell out of him. Ryul makes a movement beside him, reciprocated with a touch from his tail. 

“The Galra have picked up on the transmission frequencies we’ve been using. Roamer is working on adjusting the frequencies or whatever nonsense. For now, it’s closed channels only. Here are the codes,” Ovule said, tossing a memory chip to Uilt’xen who snatched it out the air quickly. She looked at it in distaste, eyes flashing between chip and lizard.   
“You’ll want to use them. Gereen’s main ship got caught between _Calarel_ and _Zaltarish.”_

Eldar scowled. “That’s six Quintant of constant travel, maximum thrust. I thought he and Fellfrir had cleared the _Balter System?”_  
“They did. The Galra decided to move back in and blow up the planets though. Some sort of, _“if we can’t, you can’t”_ suicide mission. Thwarted by yours truly, but Gereen’s main ship took a bashing. He’s taken the _Rexx-Marth_ for repairs on _Uthorim._ Has to replace the engines and rebuild his speeders. Only these two are capable of hyper drive so we’re playing messenger.”   
The Arroyo waggled his eyes. “And aren’t you glad that I was there to save him, so you wouldn’t have to stop your wonderful honeymoon with the doe-eyed Human.”  
“We’re working with the last remaining settlements of the Draora,” Eldar huffed, folding his arms, reminded of Lance and wishing him here. In equal measure, he wished him far away. 

“Why do you think we’re waiting here and not heading to the rendezvous with Roamer?”  
“It matters not. Roamer says the attack should be within the next ten sun-cycles of _Uris._ We’re meeting on the surface, on the turn of the tide to discuss the plans further.” The words were spoken deliberately like an order, but Eldar kept his wits enough not to flash his teeth again. Instead, his attention was stolen at the sudden light in the hangar, the noise of engines as the familiar white needle ship that his _Arenphine_ and envoy of Draora Kin took enters the hangar, the engines still whirring as the door melts into a ramp and the three triumphant Solnha step down amongst joyful laughter. 

“… but you should’ve seen her face. If I didn’t know it to be true, I would’ve said that Matriarch was _scared_ of him” Rayon said; the first of the trio down the steps. “Nonsense. She’s just heard the rumours like everyone has. They‘re on _Jastra._ There’s plenty of traffic with the trade routes, so of course they’ve heard of Voltron and _of course_ they’ve heard of the Human that’s fighting alongside us.”  
“That didn’t mean she had to stare and reel through all her speeches,” Lance says, coming last, looking tired and worn, but still beautiful as Eldar lets his gaze linger on honey skin and whiskey eyes, his aura sunshine-yellow, happiness as crisp as a breeze as his sweet scent fills the air. Eldar lifts his gaze to meet him.   
He see Ovule lift his gaze too. 

“Lance,” Eldar calls, bringing the boy’s attention to the gathering. His eyes lift. His smile falls.   
Steps still and he meets Ovule’s predatory stare with wide eyes. A flash of movement across his features and he schools his lips into lines, his eyes glazed. “I didn’t know we were expecting guests,” he says, tone implying he was speaking to the others, his gaze coolly fixed on the Lizard with no apparent need to move. His feet did, however, remaining between the twins who flanked him, either consciously or unconsciously, taking him to Eldar’s side. When they were within reach of one another, their hands met, a press of palms, Eldar leaning down for their foreheads to meet and a soft greeting. _“Berethyl Naertho,”_ he said, to which Lance met their lips with _“Eirla Fulthaine,”_ confessing his longing for his _Arenphine_ while separated. 

“How cute,” Ovule coos, but by the way of his words, everyone knows that its’ not what he means. Eldar feels a ripple of energy from his _Arenphine,_ white-hot coals of anger, electric-salt, toxic fumes and waterlogged earth permeates the air, a stone-brittle stiffness filling his body.   
Eldar struggles to hold himself back all that more as Lance’s scent continues to sour, that sad, pained fear that clings to him, replacing the grief that underlines his being most days. He slowly turns, pressing into Eldar as he does and remains there, eyes narrowed to Ovule who just tastes the air, turning away from the foul smell. “Not happy to see me?” he asks, already knowing the answer.   
Lance answered with brittle anger, the burnt smell of charred flesh, the chill of an icy blade strong enough to cut the tension in the air.   
With his temper in check, he steeled himself into silence. That was testimony to his anger in itself. 

Eldar bares his teeth instinctively, flashing a threat in piercing eyes as he presses Lance closer to him, digging his fingers in the boy’s back, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to anchor. Although, whether it’s for himself or for his _Arenphine,_ he’s not sure. 

Toil appeared then, announcing her arrival with the slide of a door. She was turned away, unaware of the standoff, speaking in low tones with her sister, Ygrainne, who she had found in her short trip to _Godolphin’s_ canteen – the true reason for her visit. Among other things.   
The two of them exchanged farewell words before the Thorx rejoined Ovule, a silent question if business had already been discussed as she looked between him and the others. At the sight of Eldar and Lance stood together, she offered a respectful salute. Then she turned to her shipmate. “We have a schedule to keep Ovule. Irian needs the message too and he’s back orbiting _Galen.”_ The Arroyo nodded, rudely, but he acknowledged her, a wave of his hand motioning to the ship which she approached first. 

Ovule turned back to the _Godolphin_ crew and smiled wide, fanged. “Eldar. When you come to _Uris,_ bring the Human with you.”  
“I will do no such—”  
“Roamer’s request, though not one I’ll argue against. It seems she wants to talk with him. She has the notion that he might— is… _interesting.”_ His grin widened from the implied words, turning on his heel to head back to his ship, steps light, tone implying ill-intent. “For a Hyaline with two brains, she seems to think your pet is awfully smart.” 

“Get out of here Ovule, before you dig yourself your own grave,” Eldar threatened, his patience unbearably thin. The Arroyo just gave him a mock salute, joining Toil on the ramp before climbing back into the vessel, laughing to himself. Getting under Eldar’s skin was far too easy these days. Now any threat to the Human boy would rile him up enough to want to murder anyone who posed a possible threat.  
To Eldar, it felt like the entire galaxy had it out for Lance, and all fairness it kind of did. He used to be a Paladin of Voltron. And if the Galra found out the Solnha had him, they’d rip him from Eldar’s clutches, leaving only blood and death in their wake. 

The gathered stood in still-tense silence as the bronze ships restarted their engines, the quiet broken by the buzzing of heat and flame and power; angry bees of energy thrumming to life to take the _sakaala_ and his hate from the sanctity of the _Godolphin._  
Eldar remained by Lance’s side, not quite ready to unfurl his hand. “Sometimes I hate that we agreed to this alliance,” said a voice next to him. Tho’ regarded the fleeing ship with distaste, eyes turned to his Prime. “Just say the word. I have fifty seven poisons that will paralyse him just enough he can’t move, but he’ll feel every blow you inflict upon him.” Eldar, his own taut scent of sea-soaked rope and burnt rubber softened into the usual mists of summer rain. He grinned at the thought, knowing Tho’xemae would hold true to his word. The others nodded to, claiming their own turn to raise fists against the Arroyo.   
“Maybe one day. But until then, the next time we meet, we shall be more hospitable in our approach and you can slip a laxative into his drink.” 

The silence dissipated into small chuckles, short-lived with the sudden surge of cold that resonated from Lance. Eldar felt his grip slipping and watched, shocked and frozen, as his _Arenphine_ dropped to the floor of the hangar bay.   
“Lance, Lance!” Foci called out in horror, already nearby. Uilt’xen was smart enough to push the others back, allowing Tho’ to crouch on his lower appendages one side, Eldar on the other, his heart in his chest as he listened to Lance’s pound against his ribs in an attempt to free itself. 

“Eldar what’s happening to him,” Foci wailed, pushing too close, ignoring the way Ryul stands before them, arms stretched wide, demanding that they move back, _Lance needs space._  
His breathes come quick, fast, too shallow for actual oxygen and the way he curls in on himself, shaking, doesn’t help but there’s nothing to be done, as Lance buries himself in his mind, searching for a light in the darkness. Lance could feel tiny splinters of the nightmare digging into his mind, reminding him of the pain, the chest-tight fear, bringing back more than just the memory of fresh terror that fuelled his nightmares, waking him when the ships was dark, haunting him when he found rare moments of solitude. 

“Eldar what’s wrong?” the Rabbi wailed again, keeping their distance as Ryul was joined by Uilt’xen to keep the giant Alien from crushing those gathered in an attempt to help Lance, even though they didn’t know what was happening to their brother. 

“It’s okay Foci, this has happened before,” Eldar said, the shock of Lance’s collapse having left him, watching as the boy began to shake, limbs curled around himself, head tucking close to his chest as convulsions shocked his body in sparks of jerky movements. His colour of his skin softened, no longer bronze but pallor in comparison, white blood-less lips as his jaw tightened and the screams of memories were locked behind his teeth.   
It broke Eldar to see him like that, knowing there was nothing he could do for the moment. He’d seen him like it too many times, and knew why. He’d asked Lance what is was what made him like this; horrified by the answer he was given. 

“What do you mean this happened before,” Kenmare asked, dropping to his brothers side, reaching out a hand to grab at the boy, his movements stilled when Eldar raised a hand to stop him. 

“What is it Eldar? What’s wrong with him,” Tho’ asked, looking worried; his usual bioluminescent glow of blush dulled and murky from fear of the unknown. He might’ve been a trained medic, knowledgeable in all sorts of sciences that allowed him to treat and heal the crew of the _Godolphin,_ but Humans were new to him and he hadn’t learnt much from the short time Lance had been with them. He hadn’t the need to. 

“He calls it trauma.”  
 _“Trauma?”_  
“He explained it to me. Almost like a dream, but it isn’t something he can pull himself from, like a wandering mind or a nightmare. It is where his mind forces him to re-live past events, usually ones that engrave fear and dark emotions. Lance has a deep-rooted fear of Ovule, and I fear that now, as he lies here, he is re-living the _sakaala’s_ attack against him.” 

Rayon turned his nose up in anger, yet his eyes remained soft. “Stupid Human magic,” he sniffed, scowling at the scent of urine that filled the air. Eldar looked down at his Arenphine, feeling the fear bubbling inside him; an echo of Lance’s emotions although dulled. Still, he had a strong desire to retreat to his quarters and bury himself in his nest. If he was scared to be among family, he couldn’t imagine the horror Lance was living through. 

“So what can we do?” Tho’ asked, watching as Lance’s body began to calm. The colour remained from his cheeks, his breathing still laboured and fast, but the jerky movements no longer took over all his limbs, the movements becoming increasingly sporadic. “For now, nothing,” Eldar said with a sigh. “The moment will pass, but until then, I shall take him to our room. Tho’, will you prepare him a sleeping draft for when he returns to us. I don’t want to leave him on his own.” The Doctor nodded, already hurrying to his med bay, leaving Eldar to scoop his _Arenphine_ into his arms and carry him to bed. 

Lance remained deep in his mind, still drowning in the fear of being hunted by the Arroyo in the _Godolphin’s_ own corridors during the last time he made a visit. Boarded under the impression of reporting Galra activity and newly located mining operations in the _Medellin_ system – which was left to another to relay the message – Ovule stalked the halls, seeking out the little Human that had already evaded him once. 

The crocodile had caught him, outside his and Eldar’s shared quarters. Lance, not thinking he needed to be cautious in his own home hadn’t thought of the footsteps that quickened behind him, the sudden hand on his collar that grabbed him and dragged him back into the private room. Lance, helpless and frightened as he was pinned to the floor with Ovule’s weight alone, the beast leaning over him, laughing into his ear.  
 _“You have nowhere to run now, lilodah. You might’ve escaped Gereen, the weak Culm who remains under the thumb of your precious bed-mate. But you were my prize long before Eldar’s and he snatched you away. He needs to be punished, and for that, I thought I’d destroy you, and throw your mangled corpse at his feet.” _

Lance had fought, and fought hard. 

He had screamed, knowing he was no match against Ovule, weapon-less, already pinned beneath him. He couldn’t fight the brute strength that trapped his wrists in one hand, pushing them up above his head.   
Lance felt the sharpness of talons dig into his neck, the four blackened oval that would remain and discolour his skin long after the blood had stopped dripping from the inflicted wounds. His cries were stifled behind tightly clamped teeth and bleeding lips. Lance could hear the panting of the creature, his animalistic, predatory nature like a second skin. 

_“Or would you prefer to be alive? Instead, shall I defile you and break you, and let you see how broken your Prime becomes at the sight of you,”_ Ovule growled, the slithering of his tongue dragged over the boy’s smooth skin, his laughter breaking through the suppressed cries. _“N-no, don’t!”_ Because instinct tells Lance to fight, to beg for his life.   
But begging only fuelled the monster’s desire. _“That’s it,”_ he whispered, his voice a throaty laugh, the trills of his feathered spines twitching as he pulled pleasure from tasting Lance’s snow-sharp fear on his tongue, the brine of salt on his skin. _“Scream for me.”_  
And even though Lance knew the monster wanted it, even though he tried to silence his own panic, he couldn’t. Mind too tangled in fear to pull apart flailing attempts at tugging limbs free, his screams broken by stuttered begs, drowned out by vicious laughter that would haunt his nightmares. 

But through it all, Lance heard a voice, softly calling to him. _He’d been through worse. He could handle this.  
He just has to calm down and think his way out. _

Lance choked back his sobs, ignoring the throat-tight panic in favour of his blood alighting in ravenous fire, hot and prickling under his skin. He couldn’t spur the monster on any further. He couldn’t show that this display of vulgar strength would break the boy. He wouldn’t let him use him in such a way, just to get to Eldar. _How could Lance let himself be used like that?_ The blame alone… 

Ovule sensed the fragrance of Lance’s terror gave way to the less-than appreciate burning of wrath. He pulled back from where his lips were suckling sweaty skin, withdrawing his clawed hand enough that cold talons tenderly stroked his face, following the curvature of red cheeks, damp from tears that no longer fell. _“Oh,”_ he sniffed, pulling back further but not enough the strength of his arms was taken from where they kept the boy pinned to the floor. _“You won’t scream?”_  
The tips of his curvatures caught Lance’s lip deliberately. The cut had pulled a gasp from him; the smell of fresh blood enticing the primal instinct within him, his tail dancing back and forth like a cat preparing to pounce. 

_“You don’t scare me, fucking bastard,”_ Lance spat. He shook his head, freeing his chin of the grip of claws, praying for flexibility as he pulled his legs up, trying to find a good foothold for a decent kick. But Ovule held him firm. He had felt the sudden rush of heat underneath his tightening grasp, the clammy skin that smelt so _delicious_ to the cold blooded predator. 

But no matter how much Lance fought, fought Ovule and fought his own looming monsters buried deep inside him, clawing at his chest, blood thick like tar, screams heavy and choking in his throat… No matter how much Lance fought, the fear began to consume him. He couldn’t fight his instincts, body struggling against even his own mind as he couldn’t keep up the pretence of a perfect statue whilst this beast devoured him. He wouldn’t wait for the demon to feast, to feel the skin tear under sharp claw, feel the blood rush forth from broken skin and torn flesh… 

_“Get– off– me!”_ Lance had known the order would fall upon death ears, knew that his attempts to pull wrists from the crocodiles grasp was futile; he had been barely able to unbalance Eldar when the two of them sparred— _Eldar!  
“ELDAR, ELDAR!” _He had screamed with renewed terror; lungs strangled for air as a clawed hand discarded his wrists and clamped his mouth _shut,_ Ovule leaning in quick, his tongue snaking over the Human’s face, lapping up the tears and sweat that soaked his frightened body. _“He’s not coming to save you. Even if he calls you his mate, he’s too far away to hear you. And won’t that just make it all the more heartbreaking,”_ he laughed. _“He was so close, and he couldn’t save you.” _

Lance’s hands were free, but what was the use of them if he couldn’t even breathe?  
He ignore the taunts, trying to pry the Arroyo off of him; useless claw-less human fingers scraping at scales harder than diamond, black cornering the edges of his vision, his body shaking in all manners of spasms if only to reach that all important air supply. Hands flailed up in Ovule’s face, fingers trying to gouge at his eyes, to dig into the soft flesh of his neck, to yank at the feathers that stood erect on his brow.   
But it was all for naught, Lance’s hands covering his neck when Ovule allowed his throat to constrict and air to be drawn into starved lungs. The black throbbed and Lance’s head swam in pain. _“Bastard, die–”_ he began, cut off the second he cursed when the Alien flexed his fingers, the Human’s windpipe squeezed between the too-strong scaled digits, the tips of his claw drawing blood like vampire bites from soft flesh. 

_“I never understood what Gereen ever got from his Skulks,” _he laughed in Lance’s ear, his fangs raking at bare skin of the boy’s neck, tongue lapping up the blood. He moved his body closer, resting back on his haunches so that he hovered above Lance’s hips. Hands pinned beneath scaled knees, and claws still firmly wrapped around the boys’ throat, Ovule sliced through Lance’s clothing, pulling back the layers to reveal freckled skin underneath. He released Lance’s throat, laughed when the boy gasped for breath, eyes rolling in his skull as the shock of air filled his body, his head between conscious and not as the monster leaned in again. _“I like mine loud. I like them alive, so they know what’s happening to them. So they know what’s coming and they can’t do anything to stop it.”_  
Lance kept fighting, ignoring the words, ignoring the way Ovule looked him up and down like he was a piece of meat. But then, to the Arroyo, he was. 

Ovule licked his lips. _“I like them loud and screaming. So that’s what you’re going to do for me,”_ he said, leaning closer. _“You’re going to scream. You’re going to beg for your life, you’re going to beg for Eldar to come save you.”_  
Lance looked up at his monster, utter loathing in his eyes. _“Fuck. You.”_

The words were to defy the Alien and he did not appreciate Lance’s attitude. So without a word, he leant forward and sank his teeth into the boy’s shoulder. His fangs broke through skin; blood the most potent smell in the air surrounding toxic fear, the bitter iron of anger clashing like swords with Ovule’s own want for blood and destruction at his own hand. 

With pressure, the boy’s cries increased, the screaming shredding the silence into a cacophony of noise. Shameful, for Lance who didn’t want to bend his knee to this creature, even if the noise was his release, like it was some way to alleviate the pain as teeth crushed bone, sinew, flesh and blood nothing but a feast for the monster that wanted the screams.   
That was what Ovule wanted. 

He clamped his jaw down, _harder,_ revelling in, not just the fragrance of terror and pain, but the sweetness of warm blood that wet his lips and stung his nose as if surrounded them. The predator’s bloodlust grew, his cardinal desire somewhat dampened by the nectar that filled his mouth, the Alien drunk on the life force he drained with vigour. _And oh, it tasted so good,_ enough that Ovule forgot himself, biting harder, teeth grating down on bone. His fangs, like obsidian left groves on the marrow, scarring deep.   
Lance could only whimper beneath him, having lost all hope for escape. His mind was lost to pain and the fear that death will follow defilement, and Eldar soon after. 

He didn’t move; logic telling him fighting will only bring more pain, other logic telling him to remain will secure such fears. Torn flesh and broken bones were already his souvenirs, but more could be avoided if he could procure and escape. 

He understood that Humans weren’t unnaturally strong, but he thought himself at least above average, even when fighting the Galra. Compared to Hunk, Shiro and Keith he didn’t think himself a match, but he’d been able to withstand the Galra and face Eldar on equal footing on more than one occasion. But this wasn’t a robotic Galra, he wasn’t armed with his Bayard and he wasn’t sparring against Eldar who would know when to hold back and pull his attacks.   
This was an Arroyo: an Alien born of pure muscle and scaled armour that wouldn’t repent under Lance’s pathetic flesh hands. This was a beast evolved from a primal predator that retained its violent desire for blood and sex. 

Lance couldn’t mourn his weakness, or waste his time pitying himself as he felt the Arroyo’s hand roam down over his unclothed stomach. The cable belt that held up his trousers was crushed and pulled off in one swift movement; the waistband of the trousers snapped in the second before the material fell away, his body nude on the floor of his and Eldar’s shared quarters.   
He was bare, undefended, trapped. 

Legs still pinned beneath the creatures’ haunches, Lance couldn’t kick at the body that hovered over him. He’d been able to pull his hands from where Ovule had pushed his knees to palms, immobilised where they had remained pressed to the floor. Now though, they continued to scratch at the impenetrable shell, only serving to excite the predator further with their pushing and scratching. To Ovule he only felt nails rack at his scales, his spine tingling at the sensation.   
He rocked his hips once. 

Bile collected in Lance’s mouth.   
_He was going to—_

No. Fuck if Lance was going to let him.   
Only Eldar had ever held him like that. He’d be damned if he gave up now and gave his body over to this brute. 

The Human rolled his own body, curling upwards upon himself, leaning up into Ovule’s space as the predator watched, amused at the weak thrashing of his prey. He didn’t know Lance’s plan until the boy’s own teeth found purchase on scaled flesh. Maybe the Arroyo’s snout had been a bad choice for a target, but with little else to aim for and less-than-normal-manoeuvrability, Lance didn’t have the luxury to be picky.   
He poured all his anger, red hot and pure black hatred fuel his movements, mind snapping to an Earthen memory that Human’s jaws are strong enough to snap bone. He lets his jaw clamp shut on scale and flesh and sinew, bile and blood mixing in putrid taste as warmth filled his mouth and drowned his throat. It was warm and vile, but the returned screams of the Arroyo fuelled Lance on and he let his teeth snap together, idly thinking his biology teacher would be pleased that his Human bite was poisonous. _Take that you fucking wanker._

Ovule recoiled as much as Lance let him; his teeth still dug into the beast’s flesh. As Ovule retreated back, the motion pulled Lance up, until a foot was free and Ovule got a boot in his face. Pity for his weakness as Human was replaced with a surge of pride for his flexibility as Lance scrambled away from where his body had been trapped. He ignored the poison burn of his arm, let his body imagine sweat instead of blood trailing down his arm as he stumbled to his feet, one hand hauling the band of his trousers as he slipped from the room, his shouts mixed with laughter at the relief of escaping from the fate of being raped. _“ELDAR! RAYON! UILT’XEN!”_

The poor bastard took a wrong turn. 

Of all the things to do on this stupid ship, Lance hadn’t thought it necessary to memorise the layout of the upper levels, not needing to know alternative ways to the main Hall or the observation deck, or the piloting chamber or…   
Lance knew the majority of the _Godolphin’s_ layout from late night walks when he couldn’t sleep, when Anadón would join him or another of his new family, perhaps Foci when they were snooping or idly passing time. But he had no knowledge of the upper halls, the lesser used halls that led only to the Prime’s private chambers and storage rooms not yet needed considering the _Godolphin’s_ sheer size. He had no knowledge that would help him now, as he ran into an empty corridor that only led to the upper access modules and air locks.   
There was nowhere to go but space. 

It didn’t matter that Lance was physically faster than Ovule; nimble and agile too.   
Ovule was stronger, and once his hand wrapped around Lance’s neck, he knew the beast wouldn’t let him escape a second time. 

He threw the Human like a rag doll, laughing at the way Lance crashed against the corridor’s wall, falling and bounding on the floor, watching the splatter of blood, the way it pooled under the body that was struggling to its feet, the way the red life force smear against the white _Argentums_ walls. He watched as the Human screamed in agony, the wails fading to pathetic whimpering that ran fingers down the Arroyo’s spine, ruffling his feather and lighting a fire in his gut.   
And all the while, Lance forced himself to focus. _He had to get up. He had to get away._  
His desperation was destroyed at the sound of Ovule laughing; the animalistic noise ripping through the killing intent, and Lance was frozen like a deer in headlights, on all fours, looking up at the monster that was somehow far more terrifying than Sendak or Zarkon or the darkness deep inside himself. He had always considered Humans to be predators, always acknowledging them as apex predators on Earth, always able to overcome challenges Mother Nature threw it at them, be it Lions, Sharks of volcanic eruptions that shock the planet to its core. But now, Lance felt the fear of prey; suddenly understanding the fear of being hunted and chased down…   
But Lance was prey that was trapped with his back to a corner. He had nowhere to run. 

Ovule crouched before the boy could roll, run, even _scream_ for help again. Both arms pinned above his head in one wrist, the other under Lance’s back pushing him _up,_ giving Ovule access to the space between his legs, forced with knees pressing in-between this thighs, forcing them apart and keeping them as such.   
Lance tried squeezing his legs together, but Ovule blocked him, squeezing his wrists as his mouth contorted into a murderous snarl. “You’re going to pay for kicking me in the face,” he hissed, blood dripping from his maw, yellow eyes alight with energy; dark and damaging that scared Lance to his very core.   
It was coming. _It was coming and his attempts to stop it would be useless._

That didn’t stop Lance from squirming as Ovule’s hands roamed, didn’t stop him from crying out for help, fighting the pain of his throat. Ovule didn’t bother silencing him this time. The screams for Eldar would be as much as he would get, so why bother silencing what he wanted. Besides, he was too focused on his prize; he had seen it and he was going for it.   
The lower garments were shredded, the claws leaving blood trails on Lance’s legs where the Arroyo had been too hasty. _Or not hasty enough,_ he thought, bending down, mouthing little nips at the weeping scratches, the Human’s legs twitching as they tried to put distance between moist lips and dark red, corrupt lust. 

“No, no, stop! Don’t!” Lance screamed, words muddled and confused in the chaos, Eldar’s name thrown into the air in hopes his _Arenphine_ will save him, but wishing in equal measure Eldar will never see him this weak or this vulnerable.”

Lance’s cries softened into whimpers, tears running dry, his head throbbing from the constant pain as his mind offered him shelter in the recesses of the darkness. He could hide away inside himself, shut it all out and never know what was happening to his body.   
The silence was the Alien’s clue that Lance was no longer scared. But that wasn’t what he wanted. And so, taking Lance’s arm in one hand, he flexed his hand, grinning sadistically as the crack echoed in the corridor. Lance howled in pain, screams anew as he tugged on limbs caught in the Alien’s grasp, knowing the left one was broken.   
The resounding sobs had only caused the Arroyo’s excitement to grow, his own pulse quickening as he moved in, taking a moment to savour the tear-stained eyes, drowning in horror fear, the murky grey awash with pale blues and reds and a darkness that was neither sweet nor sour. The spice of anger gave way to the delicacy of horror; snow-sharp, the rust of nails driven into soft, giving flesh as the tang of blood becomes all he can focus on, his mind a slave to the intoxication. 

Lance had seen the hunger, the insatiable hunger for the boy’s torture. He had seen the want to hurt, to crush, to _destroy—_

_“GET OFF OF HIM!”_

Ovule had been knocked sideways, his body skidding on the smooth obsidian floor as something strong, something _hard,_ slammed into him. He hadn’t been concentrating. He was too focused on Lance’s weak and inviting body to think of the Pawther that would protect the boy who caught his eye, the Pawther that had felt the gut-wrenching fear of his mate, through the bond they shared, so deep so profound their souls forever tied to one another. 

Eldar had come for him.   
Eldar, in all his beauty, had come for him and protected him, like he promised he would, when he first held Lance and told him of his beauty and his strength and the love that Eldar felt for him. Love, so strong, so forceful that had turned into a hurricane of anger and rage he released upon the Arroyo that had dared raise a hand against his lover, against his soul-bonded heart–mate. 

_“I should take your life Ovule!”_ he screamed, Lance, sobbing in relief, held tight in his arms. He held up his Kali sticks, unsheathed to release the blades from their sheaths. _“You dared hurt my Arenphine! If you ever touch him again, I don’t care for the alliance I will cut you down!”_  
And Eldar had thrown Ovule from the ship, marked with bruises and broken limbs as punishment for his crime against Lance. 

The Pawther hadn’t left Lance’s side afterwards; always there when the boy awoke, screaming through the night, always the first to wake in the morning as they lay entwined together, one being, to share the burden of horrific memories. And Eldar, promising to protect Lance, barred him from the pain and the memories every time he held him.   
It brought them closer together, neither Ovule to be thanked, nor the trauma something to address, even if it helped the two to shed their armour and show one another their vulnerability. 

Lance had been fearful that Eldar would abandon him, like Anadón warned him. Or that Lance would abandon Eldar. Run and wrench his still-beating heart from the Pawther’s chest without care as he strived to save his own skin. A fear, unjustified he decided as he blinked back the memory into the warm medallion eyes, sad but hopeful as Eldar lay beside him, a small smile gracing his beautiful features.   
“Hi,” he whispered, his hand stroking tender skin in warming patterns that spiralled underneath snow-soft fur. Unable to speak just yet, Lance returned the greeting with a smile, a little less warm than his lover’s, one reminiscent of rain after sun. His throat still felt tight; the poltergeist of Ovule’s hand still pressing against his skin, ragged breaths caught in his lungs, expelled in heavy powerful coughs. 

Eldar didn’t fuss, learning from past mistakes not to rush Lance into coming back to him. His voice, soft as rainfall, spoke calm and gracefully. “Roamer wishes to see you,” he said, part of his mind unable to shed the _reason_ behind Lance’s panic, instead addressing an opportunity that awaits him. Lance says nothing for a moment, letting Eldar’s voice wash over him as he speaks of _Genwar,_ then of _Pantheon,_ of the lush rainforests that had once been home to him and the similarity to their target’s surface world.   
Eldar tells Lance of the jungle, always filled with life, the overgrown green bushes that tried to claim back land for the Nature Gods. He told him of the vines that would hand from the canopy, strong enough that you could haul yourself into the branches, and look out across the vast realm that the Pawther’s made their home. He talked of the small furry creatures that would run through the trees, through the buildings and rooms as if they lived there too, the curious ones stealing food, the sneaky watching with beady eyes from hiding spots behind huge leaves.

With the words, Lance continued to calm, turning his body to snuggle into Eldar’s warmth, feeling arms pull him gently, safely into an embrace, so tender. To keep this darkness away, Eldar would happily lay like this for forever. But this battle was not his to fight. His Arenphine had to be the one to be strong, to stand and fight for his strength once more. It was there. Eldar just had to be patient. 

It wasn’t long before Lance’s mind returned to his body, blinking through the fussiness until recognition glittered and he smiled, brightly, at his heart-mate. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice still soft, fluttering heart revealing more than just the apology pressed between two unsure lips. Eldar ducked his head to meet them, a hand lightly squeezing the back of the boy’s neck as he pulled himself from the throes of sleep, head tilting up to the soft indigo face of the one he loved. “I did it again, didn’t I?”   
“It’s not your fault my love.” 

Eldar caught his lips in another gentle kiss, a hand lazily stroking at the locks of caramel and bronze, glowing in the dim embers of the light that flickered through their window, the light of a nearby star lighting their room. “Have you slept?” Lance asked, already knowing the answer. “Someone had to stay guard.” Eldar blushed at the boy’s frown, kissing his brow. “Do not fear. We leave _Jastra’s_ Orbit today. Rayon and Kenmare says the communion with the Matriarch was a success. I can rest once our course to _Uris_ is plotted.”  
Lance hummed into the embrace, wondering how much of his _Arenphine’s_ words were true. But he found he didn’t mind. Not whilst he was here, in Eldar’s arms, where he belonged. No confusion, no worries. Just Eldar’s scent; an intoxicating combination of musk and citrus. 

Lance moved first. Not breaking the hold Eldar had on him, pushed himself closer and up, crawling onto to his chest. Pushing away, propping himself up his knees he left a palm laid over Eldar’s chest, where his heartbeat rose in anticipation, his gaze glazed when Lance leaned in to steal another moment, lips softer than velvet and sweeter than sugar. He is candyfloss pink, fresh water warm and ripe apple juiciness, quenching every thirst Eldar ever felt but enticing him for another bite, another drink, another lick until he all he can taste, smell, see, think is _Lance._

Eldar deepens the motions of bodies connected; two hands holding Lance’s body above him, the others limbs moving to shed them both of unnecessary clothes. He turns them, using size and strength, the motions fluid as Lance lays beneath him, the shift of blankets felt from where the boy is lets his body rock in time to the Pawther’s gentle, yet deliberate touches. Their blankets and comforters are kicked to the floor of their shared chambers, yet neither let themselves tear minds away from the intimacy. Not when Eldar rocked his hips against Lance’s waiting heat, the two of them sinking into the moment, languid kisses trailing upon skin, on noses and eyelids, fingers curling into fur when good pain shoots through the Humans’ core, warmth spreading through him at the point of two becoming one.   
Their movements were fluid together, one moving closer to the other, to be close, closer still until they were one entity, never to be separated. 

It wasn’t until the light of _Jastra’s_ star glittered into their room, did they stop to talk. Lance; still pressed close to Eldar’s side, the other with his arms around his love. They traded lazy kisses between conversations, talk of the Draora settlement that remained on the planet below them, talk of the future plans. They ignored the recent visitation from their unwanted guest, instead focused on Roamer’s plans to meet on _Uris’s_ surface, contemplating the reason for her deciding to meet there rather than commune in space to decide the future of _Genwar._ Eldar had been there once, years ago before the Galra had discovered the uses of its natural resources, noting how similar it was to his own home planet, how he wished for Lance to see it, how the boy promised that they would, together.   
“Maybe someday soon, _Arenphine.”_  
“You always call me that. Won’t you tell me what it means?”   
“And ruin such a sweet moment? Of course not.” Lance smiled at him, leaning in to press their lips together once more, parting his own to deepen the moment. But before heat could resurface, his mind caught up to beating heart and he stilled in the moment. “It’s an insult isn’t it?”   
“What?”  
“ _Arenphine._ It’s some sort of insult. You’re teasing me,” he said with a pout, faking his anger, knowing his fluttering heart would betray his true emotions. Of course, the Pawther didn’t take the bait. “Believe what you will _Arenphine._ I’ll tell you,” he lulled, words lost to a chaste kiss. “some day.”


	20. A Want To Be Welcomed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance and Eldar’s bond is unbreakable, despite the war that surrounds them and the short time that they’ve known one another. Eldar loves to impress his Arenphine and Lance is happy to spend time with the one he loves, for as long as he can, doing whatever they see fit as long as they’re together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for some reason, it’s taken me years, literally years, to stumble across a five plus one Fanfiction. And so, with that idea in mind (sort of) and plenty of Human’s Are Space Orc head canons, I’ve got this wonderful “filler” chapter of beautiful bonding moments with the crew and some fluff between Lance and Eldar because I’m starting to realise how much you guys are shipping these two (wow).

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Space

The halls loomed, long and stretching into darkness. As Lance ran, feet stumbling beneath him, he could never reach the end of the corridor, watching it helplessly stretch far away from him, teasing him with his goal, just out of reach and unattainable.   
Each time, with every new step he thoughts himself closer, close enough that if he just reached out, _just a little_ further, he could reach it.   
But then it was gone. 

And Lance was trapped. 

Behind him, the panting, heavy breathing of the beast set to devour him would fill the silence, until the air permeated with the weight of a predator closing in on its prey.   
Lance refused to look. He didn’t want to look, he didn’t want to turn and face it, but no matter how much he wanted to close his eyes, drop tot eh floor and just lie there until the inevitable happened, his body always moved.   
And as he turned, screaming in panic because _“no, no I don’t want to see! No, no you can’t make me!”_ he would. Before Lance could close his eyes, clench them so tightly he would think his head might burst from the pressure, he would be frozen by the sight of Ovule bearing down upon him. 

Large, clawed hands curled into fists that pounded the floor as he charged on all fours, his body grotesquely shifted into something hideous, with longer, disproportionate limbs, his skin pallor and almost glowing in the darkness. His maw dripped with blood, the splatter of crimson bright and vivid where it poured from Ovule’s frothing mouth and the gaping wound that marred Lance’s flesh; pulsing from his neck that had been bitten. He was covered in blood: his hands and arms, curving wounds from talons and teeth, shadowing sharp indents of missing flesh. 

_“Come to me,”_ Ovule would call, his voice a thousand knives in the dark of night. Dry and raspy. It was the sound of water bubbling down a drain, of sludge hitting the pavement floor when heavy rain empties the gutters and weeds out the rats from their dens.   
He runs, and slows, stalking closer as Lance’s back presses against the wall and his screams, _“no, stay back, no no stay away from me,”_ are lost to the tightness of his throat. He’s choking on words, Ovule is choking on his own blood that drowns him, filling his lungs like beautiful, _beautiful_ poison. _“They don’t want you anymore. You don’t have a place here.”_  
“No, this is my home,” Lance would shout back, refuting the darkness around him, inside him, clawing at the mind because he thinks— _no, he can’t think,_ this is his home, his family he has Eldar, he has everyone—  
And he’s falling. The world around him nothing but black, the floor gone, the monster _gone,_ and Lance was falling, falling, _falling._

“NO!” Lance screamed in the darkness, dizzy, turning this way and that as his body travelled faster than it ever should, falling past stars and planets and nebulae. He can’t breathe, panic threatening to choke his air supply. Words called to him in the expanse of space, the echoing fear stealing whatever air remained in Lance’s lungs, mouth wide as he gasped and gasped, but found nothing but the void.

_“HELP ME! SOMEONE HELP ME!”_ He’s dizzy, he’s screaming with the last of his remaining air, hoping the words will reach another as he is sent tumbling, twisting, falling into the never ending, unavoidable emptiness of black and nothing and everything terrifying. He’s hurtling down, to nothing, away from everything, and _no one is there to save him._

But then, _“I’m here, I have you.”_

And he is safe, in Eldar’s arms. Crying, clinging to his lover’s chest, listening to the strong, yet gentle rhythm of his beating heart. Lance can breathe again, all his air spent on calling Eldar’s name, over and over again, begging for him to never leave him, to never let him go. _“I’ll never let you go. Because you are mine.”_  
Lance looks up. He looks up and he wishes he hasn’t, because it’s is not Eldar that holds him, not his _Arenphine_ who the Human clings to, fingers wound around soft fur and warm skin. Instead, it is Gereen, the pale chartreuse where there should’ve been sapphire, the arms that wrap around him are too tight, it hurts, he can’t breathe—

Lance sat upright in bed, panting, a hand clawing at his bare chest, trying to free himself of the weight that surrounded him. It takes a moment before his room comes into focus, and the arm that lays over his chest is that of his lover. It is Eldar this time, blissfully asleep, nuzzling his nose into Lance’s hair from the way they boy has jostled him, but not enough to wake him.   
Lance stops struggling, fingers curling around Eldar’s wrist for an anchor. He’s fine, he’s okay. He’s home, aboard the _Godolphin,_ wrapped in the warmth of Eldar’s arms, safe. 

The chill of the night air brings goose bumps to his form across his tan skin. He wants nothing more than to settle himself back down, to pull Eldar’s arms around him and sleep until Dawn. But the fear of the reoccurring nightmare keeps him up.   
Lance let’s his hands trace over his naked body, fingers ghosting over his wrists, unconsciously searching for the wounds that littered his body in his nightmare, finding nothing but the marks bestowed upon him by Eldar when they made love last night, before resigning themselves to sleep. 

_{Another nightmare?}_

The boy’s head snapped up; shocked at the sight of the newcomer sat upon the shelf of his headboard. He had thought himself alone, but that wasn’t the case, it seemed. “Anadón.”   
The shadow-cat sat there, idly licking its front paw, teeth digging into its dark the coat of feathers, pulling several out in its mouth. The fluttered to the bed and dissolved into sand. Lance watched, growing concern as eyes swept over balding patches of his companions skin, the once beautiful orange pale and dull. “Are you ill?” he asks, his caring nature what fuels the concern.   
Anadón releases his mouthful of feathers, fixing Lance with narrowed eyes. _{I’m not real. I can’t be sick.}_ Lance says nothing to that, turning back to Eldar, who usually woken when the boy did, whether it was intentional or not. He was always acutely aware of Lance’s nightmares, waking him up before they were too terrifying, or lying with him after he had woken to talk it through. Because he cared. 

_{Don’t,}_ Anadón said, his tone almost afraid and that was enough for Lance to pull back the hand that had been reaching for his _Arenphine’s_ shoulder. _{You can’t keep burdening him with your nightmares. If you continue, one day he’ll wake up and realise that you’re not as strong as you make yourself seem.}_ Lance’s hand clenches into a fist, but he doesn’t reach for Eldar again.   
_{The others knew. They figured it out. If you continue to show your weakness it will only be a matter of time until you’re abandoned by your new family too—}_  
“They won’t—”  
 _{The Paladins abandoned you,}_ Anadón snapped, patience running thin from having to repeat himself over and over. _{They were Human. They were your own kind and they kicked you out without hesitation.}_

_{I always said I would be the only one on your side, and that rinds true, even now as you surround yourself with this band of misfits. It’s been weeks, months even, but the past will catch up to you eventually. And just like with the Paladins, I’ll be the only one on your side. I’ll be the only one you can trust. Why can’t you see that?}_ Anadón cooed, his voice softening, watching with a barely restrained smile as tears poked at the corners of Lance’s eyes; a mix of fear from nightmares and fear for the thoughts made known through the gravel of Anadón’s voice, filling the silence leaving no room to dispute the thoughts. 

Lance turns back to where Eldar lays, eyes fixed upon the space between fur and his skin. He yearned to touch him, to rouse him and beg Eldar to tell him it’s not true, that Eldar won’t turn his back on him. Lance was his _Arenphine_ after all.   
_{You don’t believe me?}_ Anadón challenged; his smile clear in his tone. “He loves me,” Lance said, tone strong, words loud. Eldar’s ear flicked in his sleep but his still didn’t wake.

Anadón bellows out laughter, broken by coughs, plumes of feathers dropping off his body that shakes, he fixes his eyes on Lance, his third ghostly white and narrow as it fixes on the Human. _{Go on then. Wake him. Prove me wrong. Show me that he truly loves you and he’s not just using you, using your knowledge of the Galra, using you to quarry favour with the other faction leaders so that he can reclaim his title as Prime, but not over the Pawther, but over Solnha.}_  
“That’s not Eldar,” Lance growled, but Anadón just smirked. _{No? You mean to say he doesn’t ask you about the Galra movements, using your brain to better his soldiers. Tell me that he doesn’t make you run dangerous missions so that he’s not risking his own neck but yours instead.}_

Shamefully, Lance cannot say a word. 

_{You’re lying to yourself. Always lying to yourself, again and again. You lie to yourself and you lie to everyone around you. You’ll keep doing it, over and over until they realise that they can’t trust you, that they don’t know who you are, just like how you don’t know Eldar, not truly.}_  
“You’re lying—”  
 _{I’m not the one lying. I’m the one watching you repeat your mistakes,}_ the shadow-cat snarled. _{You left the Paladins and you’ll leave the Solnha, if only to save your own skin. You’re selfish, a burden, a curse, nothing more than a plague upon those you pretend to care about.}_

Lance shuddered in the chill of the room, pulling back, slipping away from the confines of the covers and the warmth of Eldar who remains blissful in sleep, unaware of the inner turmoil and Lance is once against left alone to fight his monsters. _{You’re always alone,}_ Anadón continued. _{I’m the only one who stays with you, and I don’t even exist. I’m just something in your mind because you, too scared to be alone, cannot face the truth that you are. You always have been and you always will be. No one is there for you.}_

Lance closes his eyes, regretting it the instant he’s met with a flash of gold behind his eyes lids as he sees Ovule’s gaze fix upon him. He reaches up a hand to squeeze his neck, where the Arroyo’s mark still haunts him in ugly white scars against his otherwise perfect skin. It stands as a brand: a constant reminder of the Human’s weakness, the reminder that he was at the bottom of the food chain and would always remain there, no matter how much he trained, how much stronger he strived to be. 

_{Go on. Wake him. Prove me wrong.}_

“No.” 

Lance let his head hang, wiping the stray tears from where they had collected in his lashes, kicking his legs free of the covers, enough to uncover his naked body but not enough to disturb Eldar. He resisted the urge to turn back and reach out, to shake his _Arenphine_ awake and tell him of his nightmare, to tell him of the cruel seeds Anadón planted in his vulnerable nightmare-weakened mind. He wanted his lover to make it all better, to listen to the Pawther’s deep caramel voice tell him that everything was fine, that he did truly love Lance, that he’d be there to fight for him, that he would never give him over to Ovule or Gereen or anyone…   
But fear is a powerful enemy and Lance is at its mercy, unable to wake his lover, instead putting space between them as he carries himself from the bed, taking neither cloth nor garment to hide his skin from view of Anadón who watches, the same hungry expression as Ovule wears in the boy’s nightmares. 

Lance took himself to the bathroom, using the dim lights from the windows, mindful of placing light footsteps, bare feet on cold obsidian floors. Anadón hoped down from his perch on the headboard of the Prime and his lover’s bed, following the only person that could see him. He said nothing, allowing Lance to begin his morning routine, even if neither were aware of the time, nor how long it would be until the crew would start waking, in preparation to make a trip from _Karta XI_ to the _Caesura_ System.

Anadón took position by the door, acting more of a prison warden than guard dog as he showed Lance his back and the many missing feathers that littered his body. His was bleeding black tar, the thick noxious sludge sticking his feathers together, leaving horrible marks on the floor as it pooled beneath his body. Lance wanted to ask him if he was okay, but remember that, while he was real to Lance, he wasn’t actually alive. Which meant that it was Lance who was hurting, if the appearance of his manifestation of loneliness was anything to go by. 

Lance washed his face like he did every morning, then set the shower to warm itself, humming a nursery rhyme under his breath – it was a song he had taught Eldar when they’d had too much _Kirkuk_ and got drunk, hoping the drink would make it easier to consummate their love. Turns out, _Kirkuk_ is more potent that what Lance was used to and the fool was too far gone to even undress himself that evening. At least he did remember singing _“You are my sunshine,”_ while dancing a slow ballroom waltz. Which is harder than it sounds when drunk and teaching a partner who has four arms and a tail that likes to explore when its owner has also had one too many drinks. 

_{What now?}_ Anadón drawls, appearing beside the boy, breaking the moment of peace, returning Lance to his faded, black and white world of fear and uncertainty. _{Are you just going to keep lying to yourself? Just going to pretend that everything is alright?}_  
“As long as I can.” Lance doesn’t have the strength to fight his fears. Not now, when he’s alone and he can’t pull the sword from the stone and stand strong and confident against the monster.   
_{And what happens after? Will you find another’s company, earn their trust then throw them away when the time comes?}_

Lance grabbed the nearest thing in reach – a brush – and threw it at the creature that would not shut up. But the projectile simply passed staring through him, his smile growing wider at the taste of fear it was granted, drawn to the surface by its own words. “Shut up,” Lance growled, imitating the way Eldar speaks with authority. He didn’t give Anadón a chance to question him, turning his back, stepping into the steady flow of hot water, running fingers against his scalp to draw out the darkness and send it gurgling down the drain. He closes his eyes, relaxing into the peace of the warmth, only vaguely aware of Anadón still talking to him, his voice muffled by the water that washes over him, drawing out the poison, relaxing his muscles and warming him to his core. 

The boy doesn’t engage with his companion.   
Instead, he fills his mind with other things, to escape the haunting of lingering memories that still want to hunt him. He won’t let them however, focusing on the coming days ahead; the thoughts of the official meeting with the other crews of the Solnha. He had spoken to them over transmissions and met their crew when their scouting ships, or trade routes crossed paths with the _Godolphin._ But a meeting with Roamer, Fellfrir and Iefyr was a daunting experience he was yet to participate in. 

_{Another chance for you to show yourself up, to show them all your weaknesses.}_

“Shut up,” Lance snapped. “And get out of my head.” He filled his voice with more bite, trying to return to the comfort of the shower, but Anadón had found a foothold in his conscious and he wasn’t about to let go. He was laughing. _{What, you don’t actually think that they want to see you because you’ll be able to help them. To the Aliens you’re just a lion in a cage. But not even a lion. More like a mouse. Weak, pathetic—}_  
“Shut up.” Anadón kept laughing. _{You actually believe they want to see you. God, you’re so stupid you can’t even see they want to judge your usefulness. We both know they’ll realise you’re nothing, and sell you off to Zarkon for the price of their lives, and you’ll be handed to the Galra to be tortured for information, or thrown into the fighting ring just like Shiro. But you won’t be a champion, not like him. You’ll either be killed, or be sold like a slave to Zarkon, left to warm his bed, used and abused—}_  
“NO!” Lance yelled, smashing hands to his ears to block out the sounds, nearly losing balance, his back pressed against the wet wall of the cubicle. 

Anadón was laughing. Lance panicked not wanting to hear anymore.   
He hurried to turn off the water flow, letting the warm air push through the pipes instead; dry in a matter of seconds before stepping out onto the cold floor of the wash room. Anadón stood beside the door, looking sick and deathly as he cackled, his jaw unhinged as the sound turned to coughing, gagging, choking. _{You’re nothing. You’re worthless, stupid, just like Eldar, who can’t even see that his own heart-mate is a worthless piece of Human trash, so much that even his own head hates him.}_  
“You’re not—”   
_{I AM YOU! I AM EVERYTHING INSIDE OF YOU THAT HATES YOU!}_

Lance stumbled back, foot catching on nothing when Anadón bared his fangs. Lance felt his body tilt, weight unbalance, hand blindly clawing out for a handhold to keep himself from falling to the floor. He found nothing but the wash basin, his arm smashing into it painfully, heavily, enough that it left its housing, falling with Lance, splintering into little shards as it made contact with the bathroom floor.   
Lance bit back a whimper, his body landing painfully, instinct telling him to withdraw from the monster that stalked closer, heavy claws tapping the smooth floor with every step that closed the distance between them. 

_{You’re useless, you’re worthless! They only let you stay because they find it amusing to watch you. You, who think you’re loved.}_ Anadón sneered, his tongue licking at the black tar that rolled from the top of his head. He was shedding his feathers, his coat no longer slick and luscious, now the marred of brunt and scarred flesh, ripping as the creature grew, his body and body beneath the skin looking for release; some way to expand even when the taut skin refuse to stretch any further.   
The monster continued to grow in size, now once more a beast that towered over Lance, his maw dripping with tar and blood, feathers rotting and falling to the ground as they melted into thick tar that stuck to both the boy and the monster that closed the distance. His eyes shone yellow, the same predatory look in his eyes he shared with Ovule, his snarl freezing Lance’ blood in his veins. He circled his claws into Lance’s wrist, his weight painful and immovable. 

Lance could feel his breath quickening, frightened at his own inability to move. His limbs wouldn't respond to his mind's desperate plea to fight back, to run; his legs, although not trapped by Anadón’s weight were locked and stiff. Like he was weak the Arroyo, Lance was helpless in the face of his own monster; a deer standing in the headlights of a car, awaiting its inescapable fate.   
The monster was upon him now, and Lance could hear low laughter, coming from all angles. Different pitches, male and female, young and old, familiar and altogether foreign, singing and screaming and whispering, all of it at once. The voices jumped up in octaves unsteadily, tearing into the Human’s head and sending needle-point daggers into his brain. _{Weak, burden, parasite, plague. You’re going to abandon them Lance. But first, you’re going to kill them.}_

Anadón racked his claws down Lance’s wrists, pulling cries and blood from the boy’s body. _{I tried to show you there was nowhere for you to belong, nowhere that you could exist without hurting the ones that you love!}_ He spat the last word like a curse, slow and deliberate as he dragged another claw down Lance’s wrist. _{And you, stupid and pathetic, actually believe in love. You actually think they care about you, you who means nothing.} _

_{Can’t you see I tried to help you. I tried to save you from this pain, but you didn’t listen. You got close, you opened up your heart and you believed their lies. I knew it would happen, even if you listened and kept your distance, and I tried to help you then. I tried to save you from the pain, but you didn’t jump!}_  
The claws dig deeper and Lance can’t hide his skin from the monster that sinks his teeth into his flesh, his own screams rising to the sound of banging. Heavy fists threw themselves against the door, strong and angry in their attempt to break the door down. Lance backed up, hearing the roars of Ovule beyond his door, screaming for Eldar to save him, for Anadón to stop hurting him, that he’s sorry, _“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I didn’t want to be alone anymore!”  
{You don’t deserve the happiness of being with others. I know your true worth, and you know it too!} _

The voice wasn’t Anadón’s.   
It was his mother’s, his brother’s and his sister’s. It was Shiro’s and Allura’s, Coran’s and Hunk’s, Keith’s and Pidge’s voices, screaming at him, telling him the truth he hid himself from for years and years.   
It was Eldar’s voice, who told him he was worthless, it was Gereen who told him no one would love him, Ovule who told him he was a curse, that his existence was a plague upon all who knew him. It was the crew of the _Godolphin_ who laughed at him, telling him he was nothing to them, just something to gossip about, something to keep them entertained in the dreary day-to-day life of endless War. 

_{YOU ARE NOBODY! YOU ARE NOTHING!  
YOU WILL NEVER BE MORE THAN NOTHING!} _

“No!” Lance didn’t want to believe it, he refused to accept it. “I’m not _nothing,”_ he shouted, ignoring the chorusing laughter, the banging of fists as Ovule screeched and howled, wanting his prey, angry that Lance wouldn’t willingly give himself up to the beast to destroy him, to put everyone out of their misery. 

“I’m here because I’m fighting beside them, not against them. We’re all family,” Lance yelled, glaring up at Anadón who had halted his attack, eyes wide. He thought the boy finished. He didn’t think he had anymore fight inside him.   
“I was the one to convince the Alliance to work together to fight the Galra. I was the one that convinced the Solnha to not only fight, but rebuild what the Galra had destroyed. I’m not nothing! I am someone!” 

Lance kicked Anadón off of him, scrambling to his feet, ignoring the sting where claws had made him bleed, where the shards of the smashed basin dug into his flesh. Anadón roared but Lance shoved him back against the wall, fingers clenching tightly around a fragment of the crystal basin in his bloody fingers, holding it to the monster’s throat that had already infected his mind, wedged himself between Lance and the Paladins, breaking his will and nearly killing him. He wouldn’t let Anadón separate him from his family for a second time.   
“I AM ARENPHINE TO ELDAR! I AM A SOLNHA PIRATE WHO FIGHTS AGAINST THE GALRA, AND I AM NO LONGER YOUR PREY!” 

The monster’s mouth pulled into a rile smile, eyes dancing with sadistic glee and an uncertainty as his gaze flickered between Lance’s anger and the shard that pressed against his windpipe. _{Do you truly think you will stay Eldar’s Arenphine when he learns the truth. The real truth that you conceal from him, still scared to open up truly?} _

They looked down to the blood on the boy’s wrists, the slices in skin, not from the monster’s claws, but the marks Lance put there himself when he lost his mind, seeking punishment as retribution, seeking blood as release. 

_{Do you think Eldar will still want you when he learns that your mind, the very essence of your being is broken and flawed?}_

Lance looked to the blood, the faint ebb of increased flow, jumping in time to his heartbeat. _He was alive. He was alive._  
“Eldar knows I’m not perfect,” Lance said, his voice raw and scratchy from screaming at the voices to stop. They had, but he hadn’t noticed. “Eldar knows that I’m haunted by demons bigger than he could imagine, but he still loves me,” Lance said, voice getting stronger with every word. “Eldar knew all that and still claimed me as his lover, and he mine. He isn’t the strongest, he’s not the fastest, but he is the most important to me and I to him. That is why we are heart-mates. That is why we will never abandon one another.”

Lance looked into the beasts eyes, pressing he knife closer to his neck. “You lied to me Anadón. You twisted my mind and made me ill. But I’m not going to be yours any longer. 

Anadón’s smile widened, tongue flitting between sharp teeth. _{It doesn’t matter. I am right. You will be the one to blame when he abandons you.}_ But Lance could hear the uncertainty. And when he spoke, his voice was strong and his words were true. “He will not abandon me. He loves me, as much as I love him. If I am weak now, then that is only because you are the one that is dragging me down! I will rid myself of you and stand side by side with my _Arenphine._ I am already stronger with him by my side, and I will never let you, or anyone rob me of that.” 

With the swiftest of blows, Lance brought the shard down into the neck of his own darkness, watching the tar bubble and ooze from the gash of his throat. Anadón gasped for air, but Lance would no longer feed him his fear, no longer slash his own wrists, sacrifice his own life-force to feed the other.   
He stood, watching the creature of darkness melt and fade before him, watching his darkness drain away before his eyes. 

Lance was finally free.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Space

In the weeks following Anadón’s _“death”_ Lance couldn’t help but search for him unconsciously. It wasn’t like he chose for his eyes to scan the crowded mess hall for the familiar flash of black; the vision of the creature hunting him a constant scar in the back of his mind. Another to add to his demon’s armamentarium.   
Having Anadón turn on him had been frightening, as much as the fact it had been his own hand that had carved marks deep into his own flesh without his control.   
But, despite the fear and the questions that rose, there relief too, following the attack.   
The outcome, the banishment, and the current absence of the creature were all welcome, by both Lance and Eldar, who strongly expressed his true feelings for Lance’s now missing companion. He had been horrified to find Lance in their wash room, trying to hide the smell of blood that remained potent – that in itself, calling Eldar from sleep. Knowing Eldar would want the truth, and know if Lance lied, he told him the truth: that Anadón was gone and he wouldn’t be returning. 

In the beginning, Lance had welcomed Anadón, not allowing himself to give too much thought to the reasons why he could see another, only thankful for the company. He was a fool to think himself lucky he had another that could see the way he saw everything, the way that Anadón remained on his side, the two of them sharing the burden of darkness when the other’s eyes fell upon them.   
Lance had taken the comfort from the second presence in times when he felt alone; yes, surrounded by his family, but still very much alone. Ignored and unwanted. A seventh wheel. A stand-in and nothing more. 

Anadón had stopped all of that. Ignoring the logic that the arrival of an imaginary friend was anything but good news, Lance had let his mind continue to break down from the never-ending stress, depression, fears of failure, all manifesting into psychosomatic outbursts that took the form of the Shadow-beast that would walk beside him, talk to him, call his name.   
Anadón had been there when Blue had given up on him ever becoming strong enough to remain as her Paladin.   
Anadón had been there when the crew hadn’t wanted him, ready to cast aside at a moment’s notice.   
Anadón had been there when Allura replaced him, easily and quickly without resistance from those he once called his family.   
Anadón had been there when Lance had left them, before they could banish him themselves. 

But Anadón was gone now. 

The first week following their fight, Lance forced himself into distraction, away from the sudden loneliness he felt, even with the previous lack-of-presence his companion had adopted. Unable to shift the feeling that something was missing, Lance had sought out anything to take his mind’s attention. He had offered himself up to Tho’xemae for a continuation of the Daratrine’s endless questionings and all the nit-picky procedures he had happily chirped as _“research.”_  
The two of them were very thorough in their conversations, discussing things as mundane as sleeping and eating, all the way to Human’s self-identity, communities, religion, expression of self, to name a few. It was fair to say that Tho’ had a thousand more questions than when he and Lance had first met. 

Foci was a pleasant friend to hang around with when Lance needed a break from sparring with Eldar or light hearted conversation. Swimming with Delphi was relaxing too, and there was plenty of jobs to be done all over the ship, meaning Lance continued to develop close relationships with the crew. The appreciated his _try, try, try again_ attitude and appreciated any new angle he could give them.   
The mechanics managed to convert the engines to use solar and heat energy rather than a constant supply of _Bismuth,_ just because Lance pointed out the explosive fuel cells could also be used in weapon design, the idea of course jumped upon by the Trigamon who loved having Lance around to test their new weapons and gadgets he talked about. 

It was the Trigamon as well who had claimed most of Lance’s time when he mentioned sparring against Gladiators for practice, considering not everyone always had free time for Lance to improve his own abilities.   
Of course, the _Godolphin_ didn’t have the same facilities as the Castle, meaning there was no invisible maze or easily attainable room dedicating to training – apparently the ship was part of a peacemaker fleet – so Lance reclaimed one of the larger storage rooms, all food and supply crates juggled into other rooms to give himself a large enough sparring ring.   
While the Trigamon worked on improving the technology, such as Gladiators, defence weapons and the like, Lance took it upon himself to teach fighting and self-defence, following the _“just-in-case”_ scenarios that Lance loved to bring to the surface every time Eldar wondered about his plans. Natural fighters like the Draora, Thorx and Daratrine didn’t need the lessons but they would come along to spar when they had free time. 

“I see you got bored of sparring with me then,” Eldar says from where he’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded in front of him as he watches Lance take out a second drone, much to the clamouring of the Trigamon who were _sure_ Lance would have a hard time taking out the porcupine-like robot. Kudos to them, it was harder, but Lance has played enough videogames and sparred against various enemy to be able to spot weakness in defence and attack motions. And he did make sure to tell the Trigamon that they’re creation _was_ a tricky enemy. “Just try and make it tougher to beat next time,” he said as bets were made about stronger gladiators and the spare parts were dragged off for upgrades.

“Rayon and Kenmare not want to spar?” Eldar asks when Lance comes to join him having swiped up a bottle of water. “Kenmare is helping Or’ with translating some intercepted messages and I think Rayon is sleeping off his drinking competition with Dart. Looks like they got into Brea’s _Kirkuk_ supply sometime through the night. But don’t let him know I told you,” he added with a grin, knowing Eldar wouldn’t care either way. Brea would see to the pairs’ punishment herself. 

“You could’ve come to find me,” Eldar says, slipping a hand into Lance’s to pull him close to his chest, brushing Lance’s hair away from his forehead, running his fingers through the back of the boy’s hair. Lance smiled, pushing back into the soft touch. He tilted his neck, letting Eldar scent along the skin, running his nose along the boy’s jaw line, feeling the slight stubble of growing hair. 

“You were busy talking with Iefyr. I didn’t want to bother the two of you, now that we’re inbound for _Caesura—”_  
“You could never bother me, _Arenphine.”_ The word spiked pain in Lance’s memory, trying to quickly drown out Anadón’s words, his stomach suddenly empty and tight. Eldar held him closer, smelling the faint essence of apprehension. Before Eldar could ask, Lance donned his mask and smiled up through long eye lashes. “Careful there, or you might just be challenging me into finding something that will.”  
“Doubtful,” Eldar smiled, leaning in to catch lips, feeling content at the smell of himself on the human, and vice versa. Lance always found it funny when Eldar got territorially, scenting him every morning and seeking him out whenever the Pawther’s mind lingered on the thought of his _Arenphine._ Not that Lance minded of course. In fact, he rather enjoyed the tactile moments the two shared. It made him feel special. 

“Anyway, why are you here?” Lance asked, moving so that he remained in Eldar’s arms, but so he could still sip at his water. “Not that I’m complaining, don’t think I’m complaining, but I thought you and the other leaders were finally able to communicate through a secure channel. Wasn’t today meant to be focused solely on fine tuning the Genwar battle-strategies, or at least figuring out if we’re going for liberation or destruction of the planet.”   
Eldar shrugged; a human custom he’d learnt from spending time with Lance. “We got the basics down that we want to hit the Galra somewhere where it’ll hurt, but before we could decide on how we’re going to do just that, the others got into a deep discussion about tactics. Roamer wants to try stealth, Iefyr and Irian or her side, whereas Fellfrir, Gereen and Matriarch want to go with the head on approach with a full frontal assault. I informed them I was going to return later, letting them bicker by themselves. Besides, I was missing you,” he added, leaning into Lance’s space, tasting the cool fresh water of his lips.   
Lance laughed into the motion. “I didn’t think you would considering all the time we spent together this morning.”   
“I always miss you when we’re apart,” Eldar confessed, blushing just enough for it to be visible. Lance didn’t tease him anymore. He simply placed a kiss the end of his nose, whispering “same.” 

They shared a moment, stretching it out for as long as they wish. Or, they would’ve if Lance hadn’t noticed the way that Eldar’s tail seemed to jerk side to side a lot, almost unbalancing them both where they were wrapped together in limbs. “Hey. You okay?” Lance asked, tilting his head to bare his neck, hoping that the offer would reassure Eldar’s nerves. It did, somewhat, but when the Pawther pulled back, he looked just as nervous as he did their first “morning after” which was made ten times worse when Lance actually had a frigging nosebleed when he got a clear sight of Eldar’s completely naked body. 

“Eldar what’s up?” Lance asked, voice still soft, meeting the other’s gaze with a soft smile. It calmed the Pawther enough that he dropped his head with a sigh and returned the smile. And hand twisted behind his back, before he brought it back around, holding in his fist a Kali stick, adorned with silver and blue markings, similar yet different to his usual pale yellow sheaths. “It’s a gift. For you,” he said when Lance took it, not sure what to say.   
But at those words, Lance’s smile broke away to a bright grin, with wide shining eyes. “For me?” He took it, turning the small shaft in his hands, feeling the weight, perfectly balanced as it rested on one finger, heavy, but lift enough to twirl, thick and sturdy. 

“I haven’t even shown you what it is yet,” Eldar said with a soft little chuckle, one hand taking Lance’s water bottle from him, stepping around so that he wrapped around the boy from behind, directing Lance to hold out the silver shaft in front of him. He pressed a finger to one of the pulsating blue markings, looking similar to the Greek omega letter, yet different when Lance compared it to his memory.   
At Eldar’s command, tiny shards of silver Argentums Metal shot forth from both ends of the structure, stretching the length of the half metre Kali stick into a long, familiar six foot bo staff. The rounded edges of the symmetrical weapon was a new feature of the new design, and Lance stared in awe.   
The weight of it was lighter than his original bo staff, but the thing itself felt hefty enough that when he took a step away from Eldar and swung it over his head, he could hear the keening of the air being split as he picked up speed. A training dummy was no match for Lance’s new staff, the entire structure of interlinked shapes crashing into a pile of jigsaw pieces. 

“Wow,” Lance said, turning to thank Eldar, not expecting him to be as close as he was, close enough to reach out with his hands and take hold of the bo staff again. “Wait, there’s more.” Eldar slid his fingers over the smooth metal again, choosing the next symbol: a triskelion.   
Instantaneously, the shards shot back in, and then out again, reaching even further, seven foot now, but still perfectly balance. Now thought, the smooth silver metal was decorated with blue pathways of another element that Lance wasn’t quite sure of, but before he could open his mouth and ask, a buzzing thrummed in the silence and suddenly electricity sparked within the channels of blue.   
Lance, ever the curious one, let the tip of the Gar touch the floor, tapping it lightly, flinching at the spike of lightening that charred the floor black. The thing had a kick in it, more so than the Blue Paladin’s bayard. The familiarity enable Lance to dance with ease, taking out two more dummies in one strike, watching the electricity rise up and crash down in wonderful colour and explosion of light. 

Eldar let Lance explore the next module, his fingers tracing the line of the next symbol: a circle with a cross in its centre. The electrified gar was replaced with a blaster, with an extended barrel, similar to an old-fashioned Earthen Sniper rifle, yet Eldar’s model was sleek and needle point. Its sighting lay closer to the barrel than Lance was used to, but that didn’t mean he didn’t miss when he lined up the targets. Yet his dummies weren’t moving, and certainly practice would make him a master with the new configuration. 

“This one is my personal favourite,” Eldar says, once again at Lance’s side, tapping a symbol of two arrows pointing towards one another. Lance balked when the thing broke in his hands, only realising that that was meant to happen, watching as the long barrel of the gun thinned and evened out to form a blade, the second handle imitating its sister until Lance was left with two short-blade swords. “I can see why,” Lance grinned, marvelling at the weapons that resembled Eldar’s own ceremonial blades from his home world.   
He thought that was it, expecting the two to fall into the similar pattern of them sparring with Lance’s knew weapons, yet that wasn’t the case when Eldar pushed the handles back together to show him the weapon’s last configuration.   
“The duel blades are my favourite, but I think that this one might be yours.”

Eldar tapped the symbol, mirrored wings at the centre line of the handle’s balance, watching Lance’s face practically break from surprise and shock as the weapon took form, the familiar hum filling the room, the light shining blue upon Lance’s face as he stared, wide-eyed at the weapon he wielded in his hands. 

“Oh my god, you have got to be shitting me.”

Eldar mistook the tone of his voice for one of repulsion, turning away apologetically. “Ah, maybe I was mistaken. It’s just that, you told me how cool they are and I did ask the Trigamon to build it because—” But Eldar’s words were cut short when Lance whipped around, pressing himself close to his _Arenphine,_ mindful to keep the light-sword away from both of them. “Eldar, you have given me a bloody _Lightsaber!_ I love it. And I love you. And oh my god, there’s no way I can ever make up for—”  
“There’s no need,” Eldar says, nudging Lance back to the centre of his training ring, urging him to try out the bright blue pulsating light-sword. Lance, a child a heart, was happy to swoosh the thing around, unable to stop himself from making the sound effects as he did so, jumping further away from the Pawther to battle it out with imaginary Storm Troopers. “Oh I can never thank you enough,” he grinned, turning back to Eldar, torn between playing Jedi and running over to kiss his lover as much as he possibly could. 

“I love you,” he said, his grin, if possible, growing wider. He ran back to Prime’s side, bounding on the tips of his toes to plant a kiss on Eldar’s nose, before running back to where the Trigamon were already dragging in a four legged gladiator, squawking about bets and the new fire propulsion on its feet that would definitely increase its speed. But with Lance’s new arsenal of weapons at his disposal, he doubted anything could withstand him, he felt invincible.   
And in that moment, he felt stronger than Zarkon; the idea of beating the Galra Emperor attainable so he could live out his life of peace with Eldar. The future was already looking brighter.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Balter  
 **Location:** Calarel’s Orbit

The lights of the mess hall flickered on, sometime after midnight. Well, for anybody onboard the _Godolphin_ at the time, it was midnight for them at least.   
Such a flimsy, manmade concept is nothing but precisely _that_ when the ship is suspended somewhere in space, free from sunrises and sunsets and any concept of time other than that it is passing and not to be stopped.   
The _Godolphin_ hangs suspended between things, just existing in the oblivion of outer space, where the stars and suns are always visible against the pitch infinity. Out here, in this vast tenebrous eternity that stretched forever and beyond, there is no day, no night, no beginning or end to a concept constructed for order and understanding. Out here, there are no elements to be counted, no defined border between one day and the next and those that follow. Thus, no means for time.  
It really screws around with Lance’s body clock, that’s for sure.

“Oh my god, I need coffee or Monster Energy, or just a shot of neat sugar,” the boy groaned as he stumbled awkwardly into the canteen, blinking blearily at the overhead lights, their low function light far too much for the sleep-deprived Human and his poor, still-asleep eyes. His body clock was reading six in the morning, entirely false compared to the inner ship’s working considering the rest of the crew, _(or the main crew excluding a few mechanics and night watchers on late shift),_ where still half way through their sleep cycles, leaving Lance and Ryul to saunter into the empty canteen.   
Well, Ryul sauntered. Lance somewhat stumbled, peering through semi-closed eyes as he pushed past the benches and tables to get to the main kitchen area on the far side. His morning routine consisted somewhat of lazing in bed with Eldar before training or an early swim with Delphi before helping the crew where needed.   
This particular morning (or night if you’re picky) Lance had forgone another round in the bedroom, showers and routine in favour of concocting himself something to resemble coffee. He was starting to have withdrawal symptoms. 

“How is it possible that you guys have been able to function without any sort of coffee? Like, ever?” Lance grumbled; waving his hand in front of the motion sensor in front of the door to the food preparation unit, pushing past the door before it was fully open. “And remind me what coffee is again,” Ryul said with a smile, leaning back against a counter as he watched Lance begin to root around through the food storage units. “And remember, if you mess with Brea’s organising system she’ll brain you just like you brained her.”   
Lance shot the Balmeran a scowl. “I already apologised and she accepted it. Besides, once I’ve procured the recipe for coffee, you’ll all thank me. Even Brea won’t be able to say anything about me rooting through the kitchen.” Ryul just raised his hands, allowing Lance to continue his searching, grumbling away to himself about a decent cup of coffee or at least some coco beans and a shot of whiskey, whatever that was. 

“So, you’re making some sort of food,” the mechanic asked, returning to the fact that he did not know what coffee was, or why Lance had been grumbling about it for the past three Dobosh. “No, not food. Coffee. It wakes you up, keeps you awake and tastes bloody good first thing in the morning,” Lance said, sniffing as some sort of brown bean he found in a sealed container. It wasn’t what he wanted apparently, scrunching his nose up at the smell of bitter orange filled the room. Ryul’s nose scrunched up too, pressing a hand to shield himself from the smell. 

“So this… what did you call it? _Coffee?_ You simply make it and consume. What I’m unsure of is why you’ve dragged me here, out of my bed mind you,” Ryul said, raising his voice when Lance’s sorting got louder, “so that I am to witness the making of your creation, and key witness for Brea when she finds you’ve been ransacking her supplies.”   
“They’re not her supplies,” Lance said with a wave of his hand – ah good, he was listening – “they’re everyone’s. We all need to eat and we all need to be awake. So think of it as me helping out.”   
The Balmeran hummed a response, but neither was it approving or otherwise; simply the notion of acknowledging his Human brother had spoken, the words going over his head. 

“Besides, you’re here to try coffee. Think of it as me treating you to experience something that is incredible and addictive.” Ryul raised an eyebrow. Lance raised a finger, pointing it accusatory at his brother who was still leant against the countertop by the kitchen’s door. “And I’ve already tasted that god-awful sludge you call _“Kirkuk.”_ That’s nothing more than liquid sugar but it’s too sweet and it only makes all of you drunk,” Lance scowled. “And I know Tho’ uses that as an alternative to adrenaline injections, but c’mon, the energy sap that follows the… what? Half Varga of high? Not to mention you have to down three buckets to get the effects into your system, and that’s only if you don’t throw it up first?”  
Lance was rambling again, Ryul letting him, simply because the conversation subject wasn’t something he could follow with only the basic knowledge of whatever the boy was talking about. 

Whatever Lance was searching for, he was unable to find it, even after Brea came in, red faced although somewhat amused when Lance whined like a baby, asking if the Deathlier had ever come across “coffee beans” or anything of the like.   
Instead he got a warm cup of something oaty, which helped calm the boy when the remaining crew woke, filing in for their morning meal. “I was so looking forward to a double shot latte, complete with foam and a froth moustache,” Lance complained, sipping at the warm beverage, sat on Eldar’s knee who had joined them, perched at a table whilst the Balmera settled himself into a somewhat early meal. 

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” Eldar said, nuzzling the back of Lance’s neck, inhaling his own scent that mingled with the boy’s, content with the happiness the pooled in his stomach because of such action. Lance turned, planting a kiss on Eldar’s lips, laughing when Prime pulled back, not enjoying the taste of whatever drink Brea had concocted for him. Ryul made kissy noises, laughing – not unkindly – at the display of affection before him.   
Lance looked like he was going to reply, when suddenly he perked up, nostrils flared, eyes wide and glowing as they turned to where the _Godolphin’s_ resident medic hurried into the canteen, one of his long arms clutching at a beaker in his hand. He rushed past the table where Lance, Eldar and Ryul sat, the Human’s head turning with precise movement and surprising speed, his gaze affixed to the steaming concoction Tho’ carried. 

“Hey Tho’, can I have some of that?” he asked, catching the Daratrine’s attention, halting him before he could rush to the preparation room, which was where he had been heading. Tho’xemae stilled, turning to the Human quizzically, the blush of his skin softening from his own confusion, but carefully handed Lance the beaker none the less.   
“Thanks,” the Human grinned, eyeing the concoction. 

“That’s Vhoadan poison,” Tho’ began, his words stuttering to a halt when he watched as Lance tipped his head back and downed the entire steaming beaker. Eldar was on his feet in seconds, the noise of the morning mess hall silence at the shrill screech of the medic and Balmeran mechanic who watched their favourite Human down a copious amount of deadly poison.   
Eldar was on his feet, wide eyes, hands supporting Lance before the boy could collapse, his heart in his throat, knowing even the smallest drop of Vhoadan poison was fatal to anyone never before exposed like Eldar, yet his _Arenphine…_ his _Arenphine_ had just… 

“What? What’s wrong?” Lance asked, voice lilted in concern, forehead creased as they turned to the gathered crew that watched with fearful eyes, already holding hands on their hearts, watching the last few moments of their Human after he had willingly….

“What?” Lance laughed nervously again, turning between Tho’xemae and Eldar, not quite sure what he had done to be rewarded such a reaction. The silence unnerved him, Ryul the one to break it, his voice marred with a slight shake, “you just drank Vhoadan poison. _Why?”_ Because no one in their right mind would subjugate themselves to a horrific and painful death as which, derived from the fangs of the denizens of Vons. 

“Because I was craving it?” Lance said nervously, the words coming out more of a question than a statement, looking back to Eldar with the look of a child not understanding why their mother is scolding them. “But Lance, that was _poison.”_

A flash of confusion crossed the boy’s features before suddenly he smiled; his nervous laughter full bellowing amusement. “Oh no, that’s not poison, that’s coffee,” he grinned, glancing back down to the beaker, then to Tho’. “I’m alright, but I could go for another cup if you’ve got anymore?” 

“You little _dahast,”_ Eldar murmured, pulling Lance closer as the mess hall returned to noise, the subject the durability of Humans’ and the strength of their Prime’s Mate.   
Lance released the beaker, claimed by Tho’, feeling a grin stretch his mouth wide as he turned back to his lover, the murky green of guilt dousing his joyous scent from where he had made everyone worry. But it did nothing to dull the shine of delight dancing in his eyes, the kind that made Eldar’s stomach fill with the buzzing of electricity, warm and inviting. He bent down, grabbing Lance’ by the hips, drawing him closer as the boy laughed even harder. “What am I gonna do with you?” Eldar murmured against his lips, not quite joining for a kiss just yet.   
Lance just smiled. “I’m sorry,” he whispered back, bouncing on his toes to press his mouth firmly against his lover’s. 

And Eldar cherished another moment, allowing himself to forge the way his heart beat painfully in his chest from fear, allowing himself to focus on the way Lance’s tongue remained ever-cautious, yet adventurous and bold, unhesitating as it curled sweetly around his own, the way his hands came up to hold Eldar’s face between his palms like he was something infinitely precious.   
The taste of Vhoadan poison was present, but Eldar sought past that, to the rich, deep scent of the boy’s arousal; royal blue and luscious red that curled around the two of them together. All of it served to create another precious memory of intimacy and love. Lance was one to agree, if the reluctance of his eventual withdrawal was any indication. Their lips parted, but body did not, fingertips lingering as he stroked the fur above his cheeks, resting his own face against the Pawther’s chin. 

“I’ll try not to scare you like that again,” Lance said, voice soft, looking up through fluttering eyelashes.   
Eldar raised an eyebrow, pulling back to show Lance the smug grin on his features, catching the renewed scent of regret. The Pawther didn’t let it linger for long, bending down to kiss Lance again. 

“I think I’m coming to understand that you’ll always be surprising me _Arenphine._ But let’s try for less heartache.”   
“Agreed,” Lance chuckled, hands around Eldar’s neck to pull him down for a hot and heavy kiss, resounding in plenty of wolf whistles from the surrounding crew, Ryul ignoring it all in favour of finishing his breakfast without the Human scaring him and giving him another heart attack.


	21. A Want To Be Cherished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is Solnha, there is no doubt and he continues to learn more of his family and they of him. Time speeds steadily on, and an approaching battle looms closer, but with trust in the Solnha, Lance has nothing to fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter addresses a moment of prejudice towards Or’: a Galra crew member – it only focuses upon the aftermath and the counter argument to such a situation. I only wanted to note this because I am not a supporter of prejudice thoughts and know that they can be, if not triggering, then perhaps upsetting and this warning is here to keep readers safe. I hope you enjoy x

**System:** Balter  
**Location:** Wyle

It was earlier than expected that the _Godolphin_ met up with Roamer’s ship: _Wearne._ They had stumbled upon half a Galra fleet inbound for the _Balter_ System on the sun-side of _Wyle._  
Space battles weren’t Lance’s favourite encounter with the Empire’s legion – he preferred ambush missions and facing the Galra on equal footing on the ground. Sure, he didn’t have the protection of Blue anymore, or heavy-duty armour that came with the title of Paladin, but there was more freedom when he could rely on his own two feet, the weapon in his hand and his family that charged alongside him. Needless to say, Lance was still a pretty good shot when it came to manning the _Godolphin’s_ rail guns beside Uilt’xen, and between the two of them, they managed to stave off many of the incoming Djalg before they could surround Eldar and his fighter jets. With half the squadron destroyed and the majority chased off, Lance and Uilt’xen challenged one another so see who could take out the remaining enemy ships. The game ended, sixteen, thirteen in Lance’s favour. 

However victory against the Galra and Uilt’xen alike wasn’t the reason that Lance was in a particularly chipper mood as he dropped from the gunner seat of his designated rail gun. For the moment it would remain out of commission until it had cooled down – the deflector shields unable to return all Galra fire – but considering the lack of enemy activity in the immediate vicinity, he wasn’t going to let himself worry about such things. The engines were a priority for now, leaving Lance to attend to the burns he had acquired from the handling overheated system.  
Hot metal and skin wasn’t a good combination, but there was a battle that needed winning. Besides, the wounds were barely hurting him, compared to all the pains he’s been through since leaving Earth. 

“Do you want to head over to the med bay? We can get Tho’ to check those wounds out,” the other rail gunner; Uilt’xen, suggested to him as she climbed down from the opposite side of the room through the access hatch leading up to the controls of the starboard rail guns – her defeat of shooting down the Djalg noticeably ignored.  
“Nah, they’re not too bad. In fact, they’re barely skin deep,” Lance said, flipping his hands this way and that to give them both a check, quite happy that, yeah he wasn’t even lying. The heat damage was on the same level as a bad rub of flip-flop bands on soft feet. Healable within the day but a bitch if the skin split. 

Only Lance’s palms were red, and were bound to blister by the end of the day but that was an inevitability that could remedied with a salt bath and some salve. He still had some _Eleiryian_ spare from what he’d give to Tho’ for the medic to recreate in hopes of increasing his supply and bettering the healing solutions for all Solnha.  
It was comforting for Lance to know he hadn’t needed to use the salve as much as he expected when he originally stole it from Coran. 

Instead of making an unnecessary trip that will make Tho’xemae worry as well his _Arenphine,_ who would naturally be informed the little Human got hurt, Lance just tucked himself on a crate, lifting his legs to make it easier to strip off his foot wrappings, cutting a length of clean material to wrap over his palms, hoping to lessen the risk of the skin splitting.  
Even if it did nothing to alleviate the pain for the moment, it would take Eldar just that little bit longer to notice Lance had burnt himself. Not deliberately of course, but he didn’t want to worry his lover for something that he felt unimportant at this point in time. 

“You know he’ll notice anyway,” Uilt’xen said, knowing _exactly_ why Lance was attempting to conceal the slightly-red marks on his palm. Lance just shot her a toothy grin. “Yeah I know he will. But I want to go and greet Roamer and her crew before he whisks me away for healing. We’ve only talked through meetings and I kind of want to see her face to face. Eldar told me she’s got two brains.” Uilt’xen clicked her tongue. “So does a Pangol, but you didn’t they were all that impressive when you found them lurking in amongst the garbage.”  
“A Pangol doesn’t talk, Uilt’xen. If they did, and did something other than sleeping, eating and curling up in a ball, then maybe I’d take more notice of them.” 

Uilt’xen just clicked her tongue again, shaking her hands in quick succession, trying to free them of the self-produced bio-fluid that ran between the cracks of her exo-skeleton, grimacing at the sight of the low-viscosity oil smeared across her body, gained from working the rail guns for a full hour. No wonder they had overheated. 

“C’mon,” Lance called to her, shoving the crates and spare parts with his foot, once again wrapped tight, his hand wraps just as secure, no knots pressing on his sore and sensitive palms. “We can go hit the showers before we go and see Roamer. Leave it till after we eat to come back and clean up. By then the guns should be cool and we can probably wrangle some of the others to come help us.” The two of them shared the same longing for cleanliness and had bonded over it quite quickly.  
Uilt’xen may have been the same race as Tho’xemae, but they were as different as sugar and spice. Tho’ was an intellectual who was more inclined to knowledge and fixing things, whereas Uilt’xen, took a much more physical approach. She took as much pride in her strength, if not more-so than her brethren, when she was breaking bones and egos, considerably more when she was smashing holes into the Galra ships that crossed her path. 

Her story was much the same as Lance’s; outcast, runaway, looking for a purpose and a chance to stand up to the Galra before they could raze her home world into nothing but rubble and memories.  
And like Lance, Eldar had offered her a place as part of the crew. She had never looked back, never wanted to go back to her planet, never wanted to be part of a race that stood back and let the Galra enslave them for the sake of self-preservation. But that didn’t mean she’d fight for their freedom, even if given up willingly.  
The two kindred spirits were as close as siblings and could fight like such when they rubbed each other the wrong way. But they were family first of all, and disputes were never taken further than bickering, arguments laid to rest before they turned in for the night. 

“So have you ever met a Hyaline before?” Lance asked, appearing beside her again, her exo-skeleton once more clean and oil free, the visible skin underneath once more glowing the faint orange bioluminescence of her race. “No. Nor am I particularly keen to. I told you, I’m only doing this because you were the one that hasn’t shut up about her since Eldar told you she has two thinking boxes in her stomach.”  
Lance smiled a knowing smile, but he didn’t press his luck. Uilt’xen gave as good as she got, and Lance wasn’t going to give her anymore reason to bruise his arms up again. Even if Prime had specifically asked her not to. 

The pair of them found the congregation of the _Wearne_ crew mingled with the _Godolphin’s_ between the two of the ships after they docked on the planet of _Wyle._ A lot of the _Godolphin_ crew were already knocking heads with Roamer’s crew, discussing damage and looking to offer help where they could. The _Wearne_ had taken considerable damage – not enough to permanently ground her but she was going to be out of action for at least three Dobosh while repairs were underway.  
They were going to be cutting it close to the deadline of the attack on _Genwar._ And the _Wearne_ had to be ready by then. It was crucial to have all fleet ships in on the fight, considering the size of their upcoming opponent. 

The Hyaline, or Roamer, was stood to the side of the crew’s gathering, not so much taking part in the discussion of her ship’s repairs, but instead overlooking the proceedings as comrades were reunited. She was stood with Eldar, torn between talking with him and watching her crew; obvious in the constant fidgeting of her body and her eyes that her two brains were warring with one another. 

Lance approached them slowly, listening out in case the conversation was private and he should wait for Eldar’s introduction before jumping in rudely. But the subject of their vocalisation caught him unawares.  
“And you were boasting so fervently,” the Hyaline cooed, the heart shape of her pink head pulsing slightly. She looked more jellyfish than Brea, flattened tentacles of the same pink colour floated about her, as if she was underwater. Her body was very similarly human, no matter how much Lance looked, then realised she was _friggin naked,_ and had to avert his eyes elsewhere. Her feet seemed the best bet, to see three more tentacles, the pads flattened like pancake feet. Or maybe they were the equivalent of hands. Or maybe she didn’t have any hands and the pancake tentacles were all equivalent of feet. 

“I was not boasting,” Eldar was saying; his cheeks as pink as the Hyaline’s pulse, the lie obvious even to Lance who couldn’t even hear the fluttering of his heartbeat. “Hmm, if you say so,” Roamer smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to meet him. You told me I could, and we were going to, perhaps not as soon as now and definitely not under these circumstances, but your words still hold true and I was expecting to meet him. And now, here I am, only to find that you are hiding him.”  
Roamer spoke like a mother to Eldar, approval, pride and a warning all wrapped up in the same tone, her words light yet heavy all at the same time. “He is his own being Roamer. He is probably still inside the ship. You can meet him in the eating hall later.”  
“Or I could do so now,” Roamer said, spotting the two onlookers that were not a part of the congregation of mingling crews. Although if the second being that stood watching her was the Human – Eldar’s heart-mate she had heard so much about – it was hard to tell, because Lance was mostly covered under baggy, form-disguising clothes. His face too, hidden under a mask he had fashioned himself to wear in battle.  
It hadn’t felt right to go up against the Galra without his helmet, but unable to procure the same visor equipment, Lance had fashioned himself a protective mask, along with the help of Or’ and Bumi; a hyperactive Trigamon who was currently in the winning for designing hard-to-beat gladiators and training courses to help improve the _Godolphin_ crew’s fighting abilities.

Eldar looked to who had caught Roamer’s eyes, swelling with pride at the sight of his _Arenphine_ who removed his armour once more, to face Roamer eye to eye. “Roamer, this is Lance. And this, is Roamer.”  
“Charmed I’m sure,” the Hyaline said with a smile, pushing past Eldar, offering out one of her flattened pancake tentacles _(pan-tacle? Tenta-cake? Whatever),_ one of her appendages to Lance. And Lance, accustomed to various greetings, pushed his hand against it, like some slow-motion high five. After a few seconds of palm to palm touching, the Hyaline leapt forward for a hug. _She’s naked, what is the deal with Aliens and being naked!_ was all Lance could think as she wrapped her pan-tacles around him.  
“You’re taller in person,” she told him. “Compared to Eldar and Foci, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Which, it was, and his words were well met. 

“I like him,” Roamer declares, turning to Eldar. The furrow of his brow urges her to take her pan-tacles from where they’ve looped around Lance’s body, but it’s not to their closeness that takes his attention.  
“You’re injured,” Eldar says, stepping closer, worry on his face as he took Lance’ hands in his own, running a nose on the inside of his wrist before thumbing at his bottom lip. Lance rolled his eyes in amusement. Of course Eldar would notice straight away. But that just meant he cared. 

“I’m fine _Arenphine._ The gun wasn’t hit during battle but the cooling system of the main engine did. Ryul and Ygrainne diverted the power from the forward guns to the rear to stop the engines malfunctioning and worse, from blowing the entire ship up. I was only left with heat marks. A swim in Delphi’s pool will calm them before night, do not fret.”  
The words offered comfort, but they didn’t stop Eldar from worrying, nosing the skin lightly, but not touching, worried he’d bring pain. Instead he leant in, lips on the boy’s brow. “At least you came to no real harm.”  
Lance shared the Pawther’s sentiment, returning the kiss, ignoring the slight hush that had befallen the crowd. The crew of the _Godolphin_ always remained in awe at the affection between Prime and one of their strongest warriors, taking comfort in the light inextinguishable by the Galra. And if their love gave everyone hope, then Lance wasn’t one to curb his display of public affection. To a degree.

Roamer claimed Lance’s entire afternoon, thanking him for finally talking sense to the Alliance, referring to his outburst during one particular conference. “At first, we were only scavengers with no planets. Now, we’re actually helping others, instead of picking up strays and giving them somewhere to live. It’s actually nicer to say goodbye to my crew when they’re returning to their planet, after having freed it and its people from Galra control.”  
“And keeping the Galra from taking over the Planets again,” Lance agreed. 

The two of them, tucked away in Lance’s quarters with food and soft seats, talking little of themselves, mainly focusing on upcoming missions and battle strategies that could be employed, having already worked well in past fights.  
Sometimes the conversations would take abrupt turns, but Roamer said that was the fault of having two brains. Whilst they often worked together to think through two different sides of one argument, it was distracting if one lapsed into stand-by, or “Day-dream” as Lance called it. She would make a wonderful diplomat if she managed to keep both thought boxes focused on the same subject for long enough. 

It didn’t matter what the two talked about; the conversation always reverted back to the Galra. Lance quickly understood why she was the main brains behind the planning of missions and the entire structure of the Solnha, not just her own handful of ships.  
Roamer was just so… _focused._ Every mission had a reason, not just the obvious end goal of freeing prisoners, disrupting Galra supply lines, pissing the Galra off as part of an elaborate distraction.  
Fuel consumption and distance travel was all taken into consideration, the pattern of certain attacks by certain crews kept as random as possible to stop the Galra from focusing their armies in one location, _or deliberately leaving a trail,_ only to fall back to a different, seemingly unnecessary outpost whilst the Galra were too busy defending a Planet that had been temporarily filled to the brim with soldiers, thinking the Solnha’s next attack would be there. 

Listening to her, Lance realised that her plans were cleverly thought out, meticulously pulled apart by herself and the crew to lessen casualties, not just for her family, but for Eldar, Iefyr, Fellfrir and Gereen’s too. And if they all started to listen to her properly, to trust her without question and not deviate from her plans, then the Solnha would have a clear shot at not only putting a dent in the Galra Empire, but actually freeing up several systems and, maybe, _just maybe,_ defeating Zarkon and his minions once and for all. 

So it was nerve-racking to say the least, when Roamer told Lance she had big plans for him in the near-future.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Balter  
 **Location:** Wyle

Late evening deemed the mess-hall would be packed, considering Roamer’s crew and his own were feasting for the third night in a row. The _Wearne_ was almost flight-ready, and with another day of repairs, both ships would be heading out together for _Uris,_ for the inevitable meeting of Solnha leaders to determine the fate of _Genwar._  
Not everyone was gathered of course; some crew still on watch and a handful of pirates on a supply run to _Calarel_ where they hunted the free roaming herds of Numenera to feed the growing numbers that feasted with vigour each night they retired to the mess hall.  
That was where they were no, amidst noise and laughter, celebrating to lessen the worry of the upcoming battle. 

Lance grabbed the nearest mug; see-through and silver all at the same time. It was _Kirkuk,_ potent and strong but the boy was growing a steady stomach to counter the Human’s own repulsion to the sickly-sweet concoction. It was an acquired taste, but the only alternative to alcohol – (maize was something even rarer to procure other than caffeine, meaning Lance’s attempts to make Moonshine was currently on hold) – Lance was determined to grow accustomed to drinking the stuff. 

So, tipping his head back and breathing through his nose, Lance drowned his throat in the lumpy Unicorn-blood drink that everyone else was chugging.  
There was a cheer echoing from the table and, _shit,_ Lance coughed into his hand as the drink coated his throat like he was drinking glue, straight out the bottle. It tasted of pure sugar and an earthy blandness that settled on the back of his tongue, resembling something that Lance thought clouds might taste like. 

Dart was thumping the table with his fist, his words slurred from where too much of the intoxicating drink had already taken his senses and warped them, making everything around him hilarious and hard to hold onto, in respects of his memory.  
Lance felt his own vision swim slightly, readjust and fix itself at a different angle. A moment later he realised his head was resting against the table, the laughter of everyone around him adding to the banging as they thumped fists, banged cups on the table and in general filled the room with heavy cheer. Through the fuzziness Lance could make out detail, even without lifting his head back into an _up_ position. Uilt’xen had snagged the cup from Lance’s hand and downed the remainder, the words _“lightweight”_ and _“Texuks,”_ thrown in customary jest.  
Tho’xemae was jotting down words in that stupid little memory chip he kept stored on his wrist guard. But the funniest sight was Eldar, sitting at the head table, slouched oddly in his chair, face flushed, eyes wide as they fixed Lance with an undecipherable expression. Perhaps worry, perhaps amusement, but whatever it was, Lance couldn’t help but laugh at the funny way his ears flickered repeatedly, like he was trying to swat flies with them. 

Roamer was beside him, cheeks flushed, the pulse of her head slower than before in relation to her mood; calm and relaxed despite the boisterous crew just feet from her about to start a food fight. She was smiling at Eldar, speaking quickly with little gestures of her pan-tacles, her blushing pink eyes focused on the Pawther’s face. Lance hadn’t seen the Hyaline talk so quickly, even with the entire day that they had shared, discussing everything and anything the Hyaline’s two brains could come up with. 

The Human’s eyes left Roamer to look at his _Arenphine._ Eldar’s gaze was warm and friendly, even with the addlement of Kirkuk, his eyes softer than what he ever showed anyone except his family. It was a look that, although once reserved for only a few, was now being given to more with each passing day. Yet the way he looked to Roamer pulled spikes of something ugly into Lance’s gut, despite the warm fluffy cloud of _Kirkuk_ that flooded his senses.  
Lance knew it was jealousy instantly; hating himself and the gnaw that pushed against his ribs like an obnoxious puppy that demanded attention. He tried to push it away, to pull his attention from his _Arenphine_ back to the clamour of happiness that surrounded him, watching Uilt’xen challenge Kenmare into and arm wrestle to his side. 

Just one more glance and a fervent chug of the nearest three cups to help settle the coil in his stomach.  
But that was a mistake because now Lance was well and truly drunk. So drunk that he couldn’t keep his mouth closed, propped up against Dart, his gaze periodically drifting back over to Eldar, where he was still currently drinking with Roamer and some of her crew that Lance didn’t recognise. There were two Thorx and a spider-like creature, but Lance didn’t care for them. His only eyes were on his _Arenphine._  
“God he’s so hot, Dart. I mean, like _seriously_ hot. Shit.”

The Bo’ Hunt followed his human-brother’s gaze, squinting through the haze of his own heady _Kirkuk_ mind-warp. He shook his head once, twice, peering again. “Who?”  
“Eldar,” Lance sighed dreamily, chin on palm now openly staring at his _Arenphine_ as he drained the thick gloop of whatever he was drinking. Sweeter the syrup but addictive.  
Lance sighed again, the spike of jealousy making a reappearance when Eldar laughed at something one of the Thorx said. It wasn’t so much a spike anymore, just a thin cut of something sharp and small, noticeable underneath the haze of drunkenness. 

“He’s so good in bed too. Absolutely amazing.”

Dart stared at his brother in surprise, the notion quickly trickling into amusement. Even through the _Kirkuk_ haze, he knew that Lance’s lip-loose state would allow him to procure juicy gossip for later. If not just material to tease his brother with.  
The Bo’ Hunt, although addled by the booze was still mindful enough to keep his wits about him, and his strong stomach for his own concoction meant he was able to drink anyway under the table.  
Uilt’xen and the Thorx were fun to gamble against, especially in a game of _Edegil:_ a drinking game with fists, and Dart had been hoping to challenge Lance to such an act. But getting gossip was a currency he could pay to Foci in return for favours.  
He started out slow. 

“Oh?” the Bo’ Hunt asked, making sure his tone sounded indifferent. He leant in, a hand reaching to hold onto Lance’s cup before the Human could hide behind it and continue to stare dreamily across the hall to where his _Arenphine_ had thrown his head back, buckling in laughter by some joke or another.  
“I mean, of course. Do you not see him,” Lance gushed, tearing his eyes away, face crinkling into a smile as he waved a hand that was meant to be in Eldar’s direction, but flailed wildly, nearly knocking into the Balmeran that sat on Lance’s other side – one of Roamer’s crewmates. 

“God he’s just…. Just so…. _Yeah,”_ Lance smiled, cheeks a flame when his stares took the notice of Prime, who had been sneaking glances at Lance all evening too, just catching the boy when he wasn’t looking. Their cheeks the same shade of pink, eyes catching in the moment of falling in love even further.  
The atmosphere was making Lance feel really relaxed. He leaned back and took in Eldar, leaning back in his own chair across the hall from him. He felt like he was really seeing Eldar again, admiring the way the light glinted off his adornments, noticing how his fur was ruffled in places and the lengths on his hair was in need of a trim. Or not, he looked good with a bit of character in his otherwise perfect cobalt coat.  
His neck seemed thicker, his jaw line sharper, Lance wishing he was in the Pawther’s lap so he could nose along his chin, scenting him, letting Eldar scent him back, until all that surrounded him was the cool, calm aroma of his heart-mate. 

Before Lance could filter what he was thinking, he began to speak aloud.  
“He’s just perfect. Sometimes. _Most_ of the time,” he corrects, his lip-loose state throwing words out before his brain has a chance to pick through them and order them right. “Like, he can wake up and be all _“hands”,_ not that I mind, and he’s like a furnace when we sleep, all cuddly like a Koala and I’m the tree, yet whenever I see him, I want to climb him like a tree.” Lance flashed Dart a look like the Bo’ Hunt should know what he is talking about.  
“But he’d not just muscles and sex drive and hot kisses that make me feel like I’m drowning all the time. He’s a giant teddy-bear, he’s selfless and kind and _hot_ and….” 

Lance sighed again, turning back to his _Arenphine._ “I love him.” 

Dart didn’t know if Eldar could hear Lance, but looking over he saw the faint tinge of a blush now bright red, the Pawther’s ears flickering, his eyes darting every which way, although always coming back to the Human. _Yeah, Eldar had heard Lance alright._  
Dart broke the pairs shared moment with a loud snort, shoving Lance’s _Kirkuk_ at him, not at all bothered about ruining the moment. The two could get hot and heavy when they stumbled back to their quarters to sleep. But for now, the night was still young and Dart still wanted to drink. 

It was then that Lance seemed to realise what he said, his face flushing a brighter shade of pink, but Dart put that down to drinking; knowing the boy’s limited resistance to the drink wouldn’t allow him to feel embarrassment yet. Or at all, if tonight was permanently clouded behind the drunken haze. 

Conversations strayed to other subjects, others butting in to mingle with the Human, the early evening passing quickly into the beginnings of night as they remained on _Wyle’s_ surface. The suns had set long ago, and still many were high and buzzed from the celebrations.

When Lance began to drink his _Kirkuk_ faster, Dart joined in, the two sharing a sudden knowing look. Lance’s day-dreamy smile played into teasing, his cup slamming onto the table with a joyous cry of _“Edegil!”_  
The word echoed up around them, the challenge echoing around the mess hall until Dart and Lance were in the centre of a crowd. It wasn’t any of the usual faces to join, but Roamer’s Thorx that had been sat with her, and an Angkor that sat cross-legged on his stool with a wide grin, his antenna bent, the feathered ears directed to Lance who handed the pirate his own cup. Instead of _Kirkuk,_ Brea bought forth a concoction much like water, but glittering with red and green that shocked the system with spices, leaving eyes watering and ears steaming. 

As challenger, Lance set the pace, learning quickly not to inhale or let the cup touch his lips, holding his breath as he poured the drug into his mouth, holding the motion of mid-swallow to open up the pathway and drain his cup before any of the others had lifted theirs to their lips.  
It hit the back of Lance’s throat like a hot fire iron and tore down his throat, burning through the coating of unicorn-blood, making him feel warm. His fingers felt like ice though. 

The crowd cheered as Lance slammed his cup, rim to the table, allowing him a pass on the next round as Dart choked on the spice, the Thorx with the leopard coat coming in second, the Cyclops Thorx, Cersaelk, fourth after the Angkor. Lance sat out the second round, and the fourth after draining his cup first in the third. The leopard Thorx, by the name of Tanur, resigned after the fourth round, Dart unconscious by the sixth, and Cersaelk bowing out on the seventh. 

Only Lance and Angkor remained, drinking on after the other, but now as only two remained; the true game of _Edegil_ began. Opposite hands holding, when one downed the drink he was allowed to lay a fist into the other. Too into the game, Lance didn’t notice the worry of Eldar who hovered at the edge of the ring, watching as the Angkor, of taller build and longer reach, brought a hefty blow into the crook of Lance’s neck, in an attempt to wind him. The drug addled his aim, simply catching bone and muscle. That would be tender in the morning, but right now it was Lance’s turn.  
With another clink, drink and slam of glasses on the table, Lance had downed his sixth shot. The drink didn’t burn as much as it did the first time, and already feeling a buzz from the _Kirkuk,_ Lance couldn’t differentiate his limit right about now. Or he wouldn’t of, if he’d actually been able to hit the Angkor when he swung for him. Instead he aimed for the twin beside him, fist swinging through empty air with a giggle of laughter.  
Their grip twisted, Lance tumbling forward, into the Angkor who fell with him to the floor as laughter welled up in the room. Two down, two losses. The _Edegil_ ended in a draw.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Balter  
 **Location:** Wyle

Normally when Lance finds himself free time, he usually spends it nestled in the blankets of his and Eldar’s bed, or sometimes searching for his sparring partners; the Draora or Uilt’xen and competing against one another in his impromptu training room as not to over burden the Trigamon with training bot repairs. Besides, with the brothers and other crew, they usually ended up gambling their own mission trophies on winners, losers and such, just to make the competition that much more entertaining. Sometimes Dart snuck in _Kirkuk_ and things got hairy, but it was always fun.  
After last night however, Lance was determined to leave it months before getting drunk again. He’d only just woken considering his hangover, greatly reduced with a vial of _Eyre_ to lessen the ache, and annoyed at himself for wasting most of the day, Lance was heading to find the twins, (directed by Ryul who had sent the boisterous brothers away after too many questions and their ungraceful attempts to “assist” the Balmeran in his mechanical work), that instead he finds himself halting in a stairwell – not sure why – listening for the _something_ that called his desire to investigate.  
The empty room, stretching for several floors, remaining quiet and dim, just as it always is. Yet Lance just knows that something isn't quite as it should be. The room feels almost _too_ still, _too_ quiet. 

The Human blinks up at the ceiling, past the shadow of upper floors and out of the wide awning window of _Wyle’s_ horizon, wondering if the idea of the _not-quite-right_ was just his brain playing tricks on him; the after effects of constant fighting seeking monsters in shadows. It wouldn't be the first time the boy’s paranoia invaded his senses, even in his waking hours.

“Anadón?” Lance called uncertainly, turning to look down the remaining steps, halting to listen for the familiar _tap tap tapping_ of claw on tiled floor, the sweeping of feathered tail slinking against the ground as the shadow-creature stalked closer. But Anadón was nowhere to be seen. After all, he was dead. 

Thinking that it was, indeed, just his own head space playing tricks on him, Lance continued onwards, ignoring the unshakeable feeling of another. Before he can take another step, he hears it: a heartbreaking whimper that breaks the still-silence of the stairwell. Lance hurried down the second level, turning quickly to the shadow under the stairs where a small Kit lay buried in their arms, shaking as they suppressed their cries into their fur. _“Or’?”_  
Lance hurried to the small Galran child, dropping to his knees beside her, hands reaching out to cup both sides of Or’s face. He winces slightly, taking notice of the light tremors that periodically pass through the young girl’s body, the matted fur under her chin where the tears have flowed for a while, drying and tangling her fur together.  
Her ears are turned away, flat to the sides of her head as she tries to block out everything around her. 

“Or’, hey I’m here, what’s the matter?” Lance says, leaning in to hush gently, trying to pull Or’ from whatever mind-spiral she’s caught herself in. She’s not visibly harmed, not in any way Lance can see, but he already has an inkling to what is distressing the kit. 

Or’ doesn’t respond when Lance calls to her softly, and although he doesn’t want to make things any worse, he decides on a different approach. “Or’, you need to look at me,” he says voice firm, still kind, but with an edge of an order. Or’s ears flick at the tone, but she makes no move to reveal her face, still tucked behind folded arms. “Or’, look at me,” Lance says again, voice louder now. And this time she does.  
Silver tears trace down her cheek, her usual yellow eyes red and puffy, her lips trembling and bleeding where she had bitten too hard to stop the sounds of her crying from escaping. Lance heart hurts to see her like that, the picture of his younger sisters and even Pidge filling his mind. Before he realises it, his arms are around her and he’s pulling her into his lap, shushing quietly as she nuzzles into his chest, taking long sniffs that is more than just the way she draws back her tears. 

“Sorry,” Or’ mumbles, sounding exhausted, but Lance won’t have it. “Nope, not until you tell me why I find you crying here rather than helping up on the main deck to decipher the message logs.” Or’ squirms, but Lance is stronger than the kit, much so it feels like he’s fighting a twelve year old to take part in a hug they don’t really want. “Nope, you’re going to tell me or I’ll go get Prime and he can be all mean and huffy.” Or’ laughed then, weaker than what the Human wanted but he took what he was given.

Cold, uncomfortable stairwells weren’t the best place for a heart to heart Lance decided and, gathering Or’ more securely into his arms, he stood from where the two had tucked themselves, hiding the young girls face in the crook of his neck, making his way back up the stairs, heading to his quarters. It was still mid-afternoon, and Eldar; still innocent to the idea of a midday nap deemed the room empty, providing privacy as well as a comfortable bed to rest in.  
Lance knew Or’ wouldn’t speak until she was settled, but blankets and cuddles weren’t the only thing he could provide. He left Or’ on the bed to gather together enough junk food (or Alien equivalent of junk food) and fizzy drinks for the pair of them to share, making his way back to the bed to find Or’ making what he could only call a nest out of Lance’s covers and pillows. The kit flushed a little when Lance hesitated, blinking at her. She made to straighten them out again.  
“Don’t you dare, that looks super comfy!” Lance scolded jokingly, crawling up on the bed, strategically placing his horde of food next to them, Or’ nuzzling into his side after a moment of hesitation. 

“So are you going to tell me what’s got the water works going?” Lance pressed after a long moment of silence. Or’ shook her head. “Then how about I guess and you just nod or shake your head.” Again, Or’ said nothing.  
Lance nodded thoughtfully, holding out a plate of chip-alternatives between them. “Alright so my thought is that…” he paused for a moment. “Ah, I got it! It was a Weblum. It came and ate all your lunch!” Or’ stifled a laugh, but shook her head. “No? Oh, alright then. Maybe it was… Ryul? He didn’t accidentally push you in Delphi’s pond again?”  
Another shake of the head. “Hmm okay then.” 

Lance pretended to think, his arms unconsciously curling tighter around the child. “Was it one of the others? Something they said. Something about you being Galra?” Or’ stiffened and Lance’s heart plummeted. He himself had been alienated, even back on Earth, when a lonely boy from Cuba had applied and got accepted into the Garrison. Okay, so it was part of an outreach programme, meaning his parents didn’t pay the god-awful fees of the boarding school, and the only reason he got picked was because it looked good for the Garrison’s Media front. It was a very “Annie” world for him, without the happy ending of being accepted and finishing in a wonderful technicolour song and dance. 

Or’ had everything that much harder. She wasn’t pitied by Eldar, she had been rescued when a raid mission would’ve left her as a corpse if the other Solnha had their own way. But the paternal instincts of someone who had already lost everything once, Eldar reached out and took Or’ in. He was frowned upon for such acts, but Or’s knowledge of the Galran language helped considerably, and that once, had been enough for her to stay. The others didn’t thinks so anymore. But worse than that, Or’ believed so too.  
And she told Lance. Told him what they all thought of her, what she thought of herself, wondering if betraying the Galra to help Eldar was a black mark against her name, that she was doomed to betray her family again. “That’s not true,” Lance said, pulling her closer, but she stopped him with hands on his chest. “But it is. Even you did what you didn’t want to. You couldn’t fight it.”  
When Lance didn’t understand what she was saying, Or’ explained, head hung, keeping her eyes closed as not to see the pain she put upon the Human’s face. “You left your family, not once, but twice. Are you not scared you will abandon them for a third time?” 

“I didn’t leave them out of choice,” Lance explained, ignoring the spike of ice in his chest. “I left to save my blood-kin. I left to save my second family. I’m staying to save my forever-home.” He looked down to the young Galran child, a hand curling into her fur, stroking behind her ears. “You’re a part of my forever-home. Everyone here is your forever-home, if that’s what you choose. And all those that tell you you’re not good enough have no right, because they don’t know you. They don’t know how strong you are, how important you are to all of us.” Or’s eyes began to glisten, but Lance wasn’t done.  
“You aren’t defined by what you are, who sired you, or the Planet you grew up on. You are defined by your actions, your words and your treatment of others. They say you’re Galra, but what’s so wrong with that? I know many Galra, and half Galra that are strong fighters _against_ Zarkon, you being one of them.” The kit’s ear’s flicked with interest. “There’s Kolivan, he’s Galra and he’s the head of the Blade of Marmora; a group of spies, consisting of all races, _including_ Galra and halves. Even the Red Paladin of Voltron, he’s half-Galra, but you wouldn’t know by looking at him. He looks human, but his temper isn’t. Then there is Oolas, he saved Shiro – the Black Paladin – back before we were with Voltron. He saved him and helped him escape to Earth.”

Lance told Or’ of all the Galra he and the team had met: Thace, Ulaz and Sal the Cook from the Space Mall. He told her of the halves; Regris, Antok and many others who, just like her were against the Galra. “True, they may be fighting another battle, not just against the Empire, but one of acceptance. I fought that battle, and still have many to fight. But remember,” he said, turning so that they were once more face to face, Or’ giving the Human her undivided attention. 

“We don’t have to win every battle for acceptance, and not every battle is worth fighting. We already have allies, _you_ already have allies in me and Eldar, and this whole crew! And sure, Zarkon has spread enough hate and prejudice that you’ll never be accepted by everyone—” Lance said, thrusting a hand to the window, where _Wyle’s_ horizon shone in brilliant sunlight “—But look. The universe is _huge._ It holds as many enemies as it does friends. You won’t be accepted by all, but you won’t meet all of them either.” 

The child looked wistfully to the portal window, holding onto the words as Lance spoke. “Only listen to the words of those that you love and love you in return. They are the ones that matter. They are the ones that there are no battles to fight, because they understand. And if they don’t, then you can educate them. If they truly matter, they won’t care that you have purple fur and are short and tiny.”  
Or’ batted him away with a laugh when he tickled her; the sound genuine once more. 

Lance snuggled into her fur. “Don’t care for the haters Or’. Their love isn’t worth it.”


	22. A Want To Be Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has done so much for the Solnha without expecting anything in return. They are his family and he loves them, but above all he loves Eldar. Eldar finally takes a moment to show Lance just how much he appreciates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than all my other chapters, and considering there is little plot progression, I’m not going to worry about it. It’s mainly just fluff and a little more world building, because I can’t leave that alone. Anyways, enjoy.

**System:** Balter  
 **Location:** Wyle

“Is she okay?” Eldar asked as soon as Lance stood beside him, on the far side of the room. “She’s alright. She’s been quiet, crying, but I think she’ll be okay when she wakes up. Do you know what happened?” Lance frowned, drawing his eyes away from where Or’ was nestled amongst the blankets, looking younger than Lance had ever seen her; seeing a child and not just another member of the crew.   
They had remained cuddling, even after the young Galran fell asleep, Lance only pulled away when roused by Eldar. 

“Some of the engineers from Roamer’s crew caught her. Turns out they had some concerns about her being a spy—”  
“But she’s not!” Lance said, sudden anger getting the better of him, raising his voice in the still-silence. Eldar caught him in his arms, calming and quietening him in the same moment. “Hush love. I know that, so do you. Our family knows Or’ stands against the Empire—, even Roamer knows that. But there were some in her crew that didn’t quite believe, and they took matters into their own hands.”  
“Their own hands? They hurt her?” Lance said horrified, turning back to the child with wide eyes in fear, wondering how he had missed marks upon the young child’s body.   
“No, no love, they didn’t hurt her. They just scared her.” Eldar scowled at the floor, making a point not to look at Or’, who Lance had shoved the Pawther away from when he had first entered their quarters, nearing the bed in an attempt to wake her after waking Lance. 

“I seriously hope they were punished,” Lance growled, his scent bitter-lemon and rotting meat. “Minimum rations and ship confinement for three days,” Eldar nodded. “Roamer assured nothing of the sort would happen again.” Lance raised an eyebrow. “Public shaming,” Eldar elaborated, but by his tone, he was considering throwing in a few lashes for good measure. His own hand was stronger than Roamer’s. Firmer too, but Lance knew no one aboard the _Godolphin_ would ever think such a thing. There was a reason why they were family after all. 

“She’ll be okay though?” The Pawther asked again, eyes once more on Or’. “Yes,” Lance nodded. “But for now let her sleep. Remember, she is still just a child.” Eldar nodded, two hands on the boys hips, guiding him out of the room to allow Or’ to sleep in peace. She could have their bed for the night, whilst Prime and his heart-mate entertained themselves with one another elsewhere.  
It wasn’t to another private bed chamber, like Lance was expecting, but instead to the _Godolphin’s_ Shuttle Bay. “Where are we going?” Lance asked as Eldar nodded to his twin-jet speeder, small, but large enough for two seats and a powerful engine. 

“It’s a surprise,” was Eldar’s answer, picking Lance up like a child, burying his nose into the boy’s neck amidst giggles, nosing along his jaw line, before carrying him into the ship’s cockpit. “This war takes up all our time. But for now, I want to give you something to lift your spirits. In face of the coming battle, my confidence wavers.” Eldar’s voice wavered too, settling in one seat, a hand taking Lance’s when the boy reached over from his chair, already belted in, waiting.   
“I spoke to the crew. They’re to remain on watch, Ryul on the Comms in case we’re needed, and Roamer’s scouts have confirmed our flight will be Galra free,” the Pawther said, babbling. He was deflecting too, but Lance let him, knowing his love only needed time to collect his thoughts and order his words. 

“This is for you. For us. For _both of us,”_ Eldar said, stumbling as the twin-jet left the cool of the _Godolphin_ for the atmosphere of _Wyle._ They sky was replaced by a blanket of stars, but Lance had eyes for nothing but his _Arenphine._

“You do so much. Not just for me, but for the crew and the Alliance. You spent the entire day yesterday talking with Roamer, not only discussing the mission for _Genwar,_ but the future beyond that. You don’t just look at everything day by day. You look at it all, and more importantly, you _see it all.”_  
Lance makes to speak, to ask what his lover means, but Eldar continues, wrapped up in his rambling. “Roamer told me your plans, the ones you’ve discussed before _Genwar,_ that we need to all meet face to face and talk it all out in the same room, rather than fighting over the feeds like we always do. And opening the talks with more than just Solnha, but those we’ve saved, the communities of those we returned home.”   
A break in words allowed Lance a moment to speak. “We’re fighting a war. There is no sense in fighting one handed.” 

Eldar turned his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Of course. But tonight isn’t for talk of fighting. It is for you and me to get away for a moment.”  
“And off-planet was the best idea because…?”   
“Because I wanted tonight to be just the two of us,” Eldar supplied, his smile souring for a moment considering his last surprise for Lance was sabotaged. Not deliberately, but Eldar’s chance for an evening of more than a dance of bodies had been interrupted by the crew looking to drink, and invite their Prime and Human to join the festivities. He hadn’t minded of course, but tonight he was determined to give back something for his _Arenphine_ that already gave him so much. 

They flew in comfortable silence, joined by the hands as Eldar took them from _Balter_ into the _Caesura_ system. Their destination: _Tuatha,_ was no more than a Varga of travel, but the gentle motions of the spaceship’s flight were hard to resist and Lance, not sure when he relaxed to sleep, drifted off nonetheless.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Planet:** Tuatha

He opened his eyes to a gradient of green and a lingering feeling of contentment that the boy chased, if only for a moment longer of blissful tranquillity.   
Lance was in a jungle unlike any he’d seen before, in all his adventures in space and back on Earth.   
It stretched around him; a veil of sunlight filtering amongst the million shades of green and blue; gigantic trees stretching away from him, reaching high as the eye could see, branches laden with vines that hung down through the air, some not yet long enough to grace the ground, others neatly woven with one another like intricate ladders that would allow the boy to climb into the canopy with little effort on his behalf.  
Creeping plants, like ivy, but larger and more vibrant, burst out in explosions of colour from high amongst the branches, climbing the trunks of the grand trees, bridges of vines connecting one to another; a series of walkways high in the trees for the planets denizens to traverse rather than dropping to the cool shade of the jungle’s floor.   
The air was thick and warm – not chokingly so – against his skin, a soft aroma of spice mingled with the taste of unknown flowers. It sat in his lungs with a curiosity and a hunger for more. 

“Finally awake?” came a warm voice, Lance letting his eyes pull from the canopy to the wonderful shade of blue that was, and is, Eldar. He smiled down warmly, settling the boy more comfortably in his arms as they continued walking away from the ship, through the shaded passage, the tunnel of green, blue and warm sunlight. 

“How long have I been asleep?” Lance yawned, voice muffled by sleep, letting Eldar rearranged him so he was sat upright in his arms, his own hands around his lover’s neck, playing with the light spring of short fur between neck and ears, enjoying the feeling under the pads of his fingertips. “Not long. But I was surprised you did, considering you’ve been sleeping with Or’ for a good part of the day.”   
“I had finished entertaining Roamer. Besides, there was nowhere more important for me to be than by my sister’s side,” Lance added, his lips pressing into a pout. Eldar’s gaze shifted from the path to his _Arenphine’s_ face. “You misunderstand. I’m simply surprised that you desire more sleep.”   
“It’s peaceful,” Lance says, and whatever wonderment held between them returned to comfortable silence; Eldar picking his way through the overgrown flora while Lance let his fingers braid the longer lengths of fur into little patterns that would be brushed away with a light card of his fingers. 

The gleam of _argumentum_ white disappeared in the trees, Lance not fearful of losing the ship in the jungle, but allowing himself to entertain the idea that _if_ such a thing would occur, it was Eldar’s responsibility. Not his. 

Flashes of movement could be seen in every direction, if not from the gentle gust of a warm breeze; then from the springing return of leaves and branches as small _something’s_ hurried for shelter in the cautious act of scurrying from potential threats. 

There was always some motion pulling Lance’s eye from one branch to another, from the ground and back up to the sweeping canopy, although Lance was too slow to catch a full glimpse of what that scurried back and forth. There was more than one _something;_ that was to be sure, from the distance of motions that attract his eyes.   
For a moment, Lance thought he caught a glimpse of something black swinging high above in the trees, though it was gone again before he could turn to get a better look. 

Eldar continued to walk, even gently humming to himself wonderful songs that vibrated deep in his throat, his ears twitching and turning to the minimal sounds of padded feet scampering along branches, the rustle of leaves and the gentle whistle of wings fluttering in the air. He didn’t seem to be nervous about the eyes upon the pair, in fact he sang a little louder as if to call their attention.   
Lance settled himself in his _Arenphine’s_ arms, happy to be rocked by the motion, his ever curious mind allowing himself to be pulled further into the unknown jungle to allow Eldar to surprise him. 

The two continued on, Eldar determined when his steps quickened to the melody of a babbling water flow close by; his steps taking him towards it. Lance cast curious eyes to the plants, now able to discern shadow from jungle creature.   
They were larger than Lance initially thought; the black being their skin, yet their body draped in marvellous coats of green and brown that camouflaged them wonderfully. When asked their name, Eldar had no answer. He assured Lance they were simply inquisitive. “How do you know?”  
“Because I know this place. There are no predators on _Tuatha,”_ Eldar said, adopting the matter-of-fact tone Lance liked to use to end luke-warm debates. This wasn’t a debate, but banter, and Lance began to question Eldar, until the Pawther repositioned him so that he sat on his shoulder, two arms holding him steady. Now Lance faced the way they were walking, his vantage point enabling him to see much more. The only danger was now the vines that hung from the canopy, but Eldar was nimble in picking out the path that meant no ducking and twisting for his heart-mate. 

A little beyond the tangled roots of a nearby giant tree was a small creek. It crept along the ground, creating its own valley of warm green grass and white stone between the trees that parted, giving it space to flow, and flood during the monsoons. Water gathered in small clear pools hidden amongst a cluster of jagged rocks, trickling down through the mess of interlinking roots in a lazy downhill flow. Some of the roots were larger than Lance’s torso, reaching up enough that Eldar was finally forced to lower Lance to the ground, clambering over one to lean back and offer a hand to his lover.   
When they made it to the water’s edge, Lance was the first to crouch down, taking in the way it rippled, small waves lapping across its surface. He dug his hands into the shallows, cupping water into his palms to bring it to his lips. Even though he hadn’t been walking, and instead the carried weight of his heart-mate, the hot, sticky air of the jungle had parched his throat.   
The cool stream of fresh water – sweet – soothed the ache for more, the two stopping for a moment to replenish their strength, before continuing on. This time, they followed the bank, walking hand and hand through tall grass that swayed in the breeze, alive with a light buzz on insects that, thankfully, did not fancy Lance’s long lean legs that wandered past them. 

His own attire, the layers greatly reduced considering _Wyle’s_ warm temperate, made the walk of _Tuatha’s_ jungle peaceful; Eldar’s company relaxing. They could’ve simply walked from the _Godolphin,_ or found a quiet nook to talk and cuddle in peace, yet Lance knew this was for him and the gesture, although unneeded, was greatly appreciated. He told Eldar so, the Pawther laughing as he nuzzled the boy with a smile. “This isn’t the gift _Arenphine,_ but I’m glad you are enjoying this as much as I.”   
His words made the boy curious, but knowing asking was useless, Lance settled himself into patience. Eldar would tell him soon enough, and he’d love it, no matter what it was. 

It turned out that Lance did not have to wait for long.   
Ahead of them, in the distance, the ground of the jungle floor gave way to a sudden rise, the river that had grown in power and width tumbling down its side in a great cascade. The jungle floor was rarely even as Lance could see from where they stood, side by side near the waterfall, watching the wash of the jungle floor often giving way into deep depressions that ran for miles, the trees spanning easily between these great levels, sprawling over valleys and ravines alike. The river continued unperturbed, pooling at the bottom of the waterfall and continuing on, splitting into the lazy trickle that led back the way they'd come and a greater branch that ambled along through the forest towards a lake that glistened like jewels on the horizon. 

Lance quickly came to understand why Eldar had settled his ship where he had, realising that the small parting in giant trees was the only one for miles, and even the though nearer the lake would also provide such clearings, they wouldn’t be able to appreciate the view from down there.   
From here however, Lance and Eldar could see all along the flowing bank of the river, spotting large cat-like creatures taking advantage of the smooth stones bordering the deeper branch of the river to sun themselves dry after having swum in the water. It made Lance doubt the “no predators on _Tuatha,”_ that Eldar had said earlier, but before he could question it, there was a flurry of movement in the distance, Lance spotting a herd of Numenera that came to drink, pointing them out to Eldar like an excited child. 

The air warmed into a cacophony of song as creatures took flight into the blue. Some were as small as Limuli; winged lizards much like dragons, others larger and more powerful; birds whose wingspan rivalled that of Eldar’s space shuttle. When the shadow of one passed over the pair that stood upon the cliff top, Lance instinctually pressed closer to his lover for protection, the notion bringing a smile to Eldar who assured Lance that the Krakow were herbivores, for there were no predators on _Tuatha._

“It is not the Ocean, nor is it Earth. But I thought you’d find this beautiful,” Eldar said, planting a kiss on the boy’s brow, before leading him closer. 

They picked their way down the rock face, their path curving away from the waterfall to the lessening slope that eased out, making their trek easier. Lance refused to be carried, which earned him a scuffed palm, but he didn’t mind.   
As they approached the river, a group of the jungle creatures, much like the ones that had been following them, scattered from close to the shoreline, a few pulling themselves from the shallows to climb onto a trail of warm round rocks. 

Eldar paid them no mind, leading Lance to a large rock where he turned back with a smile, making a show of undressing the armour of his gauntlets, untying the cord of his trousers and garments. He shed his clothes without a shred of hesitation, dropping his belt and boots by a stone a little away from the water and fronds that grew between the stone shore that lines the river.   
Then, turning back, he smiled as he stood, completely naked fur bared to the sunlight. Lance returned a shy smile, averting his eyes awkwardly when he realised that Eldar meant for him to do the same. There was no reason for embarrassment: it was only the two of them, and they have already seen all there is to see, both keeping one another company in nothing but their skin plenty times before, even before they’d joined bodies.

Lance didn’t take long to discard his own clothes, leaving them in a pile by the bank, before childishly running to the water and throwing himself in. He let himself sink until the water washed over his face and his hair, the noise muffled into the thrum of rushing water. A moment to relax, another to sink to the bottom and he kicked off the stone back to the surface just as Eldar waded in, holding himself with a little more decorum than his lover. He raised an eyebrow at him. “I did not think you were shy.”  
“Shut up,” Lance rebuffed, a tongue poking out before he thought about it, flicking water at him. Eldar just laughed, dunking himself under the water. When he came up, he ran his hands through his fur; and the longer lengths on his head that resembled hair. The sunlight glittered off the water the clung to him like raindrops, making Eldar shine with a brilliance that Lance couldn’t keep his hands off. He pushed through the water, coming to his side, hands trailing up the Pawther’s neck and into his hair, pulling him into a kiss, warm lips and cold water, the sweetness of one another mingling with the crystal clarity of the freshwater river. 

They held one another for a moment longer, before a hand splashed water into Lance’s face and he jumped back, spluttering, dealing back another wave that caught Eldar. They stayed close by one another, taking the opportunity to relax and wash their bodies of dust and the stickiness of sweat that came from traversing through the jungle. 

They swam for a while, swapping between diving to lazily resting in the shallows where the water was warmer, heated by the sun. But even then, it was still colder and they couldn’t remain there forever.   
Lance was the first to climb onto the rocks, laying down on its warmth to sun himself. He kept his head turned to the shoreline, not as confident in Eldar that they were completely safe out in the open, but that was down to two years of fighting in a war and a natural sense of self-preservation. If Eldar noticed, he didn’t comment, leaving the water to lie beside Lance, fingers curling together, soaking up the sun and one another’s company.

Lance remained sitting, combing hands through his hair to stop the lengths from knotting. In the months that he had been a part of the Solnha, he had let it grow, thicker, like a nest upon his head. He didn’t think too much of his personal appearance as he used to, yet daily showers were a part of his routine, as well as swims with Delphi in her pond, so it wasn’t like he was suffering without his skin creams and such.   
Yet the growth of hair upon his chin sometimes lingered more than a day or two, and his longer hair gave him a rugged appearance whenever he caught the sight of himself in a reflection.   
He was growing up, maturing into a man that his family, _all_ his families could be proud of. 

Finally, Lance allowed himself to relax, tilting his head back to enjoy the warmth of the sun and let his feet trail in the water. It had almost stung his fresher wounds at first, the gorge on his back one such that ached now and again, although it rarely grieved him.   
“You’re wound has healed well,” Eldar noted, casting a look over his back, having not been asleep as Lance thought. He was still laid down, but with the way they lay together, he had clear view of the tan skin, curling down the boy’s body, the indentation and ridges, where the claws of frostbite had pained him. Even with _Eleiryian,_ Lance hadn’t been able to completely dispel the scar that tattooed his back. It resembled a burn, mixed with the lightning strikes of tendrils that coursed outwards from one point. 

Eldar reached out, an unsure hand pausing for a moment. He couldn’t help but wince when Lance flinched at the touch on his back. He was conscious of the scars, and although had accepted many of the fresher ones across his arms and chest; the one on his back always plagued him as much as the curvature that sank deep in his neck, white and never fading.   
Hoping to heal some hurt that still remained, Eldar spoke. 

“You need not hold any regret regarding the story mapped into your skin,” he said, letting his finger push harder, another curling around the boy’s stomach to hold him.   
Swimming had left Lance in a good mood. And so, amused, in an attempt to divert the conversation, he turned to his lover. “You never told me you have a thing for scars?” he teased, not actually expecting an answer.  
“Why not?” Eldar replied, his smile widening when Lance’s eyes did. “These you wear tell the stories that you are strong. They are irrefutable proof that you survived a threat that would have killed another. It’s an attractive quality in anyone, be it a mate, a leader or a friend to stand shoulder to shoulder. Even if you are my _Arenphine,_ I have no doubt that many will admire them and follow you because of them.”  
Lance didn’t reply to that and the two quietened into silence once more. He repositioned himself, sitting up and turning so his hands played with Eldar’s fur, gently carding through the tufts as the sun dried him off. 

A charm of Limuli took to the sky, the flap of their wings melodic amongst their song and the call of the Jungle. The sun moved lazily across the sky, the first having already set, drawing some of its heat, urging the two to dress once more. Yet neither moved, not quite uncomfortable enough to redress.   
As Lance watched, a Limuli, one a little bigger than his hand, glided down to the shallows, the feathers of its wings a glowing orange. It glanced at him briefly, small black eyes peering at him intensely, before turning away and clambering up the side of a rock, jumping to another before lowering itself once more to the lapping waves, its long tongue flicking out to dip in the water. It stayed there awhile, sunning itself in a patch of light not far from him, seeming content just to ignore the Human, leaving in a swirl of orange sometime later.

There was a curious chattering from nearby. Lance looked up, finding a dozen pairs of golden eyes staring at him. They were the creatures, black and green of coat that had first scattered when he and Eldar reached the shoreline. Now they had edged back to the water’s edge, thinking their intruders gone, only to spot them sunning themselves on the rocks.  
Noticing they were spotted, several blinked, some dropping down behind rocks to disappear completely, leaving no trace of ever having been there save the sound of clinking rocks. One or two, bolder, stuck their heads out to get a better look, revealing small black, freckled faces.  
This time, Lance didn’t feel the need to tell Eldar, still calm and relaxed. If the creatures were this close, and had young with them, then there was no threat from them, nor anything else around. He returned to the task of braiding Eldar’s hair, only now and again raising his head when the creatures chattered, or a nearby stone clattered by the shuffling of their feet. 

Lance watched one, with its young between its legs, sniff inquisitively in the pairs direction. Its infant let out a sound; a short and high-pitched call that attracted the eyes of the nearest mothers with their own young. Lance smiled, reeling back, straightening to listen to the chorus reply from the tribe, taking note of the inflection, the tripling of calls that were soft and calm. Curious, not stressed, nor any sound of alarm. 

Lance’s audience remained to themselves for the most part. They returned to the water, some sunning themselves like the Solnha pair, others trickling from the trees, bearing fruit for their tribe. As Eldar drifted off, Lance let himself be entertained by the creatures. They loped around, some racing to the overhanging braches of nearby jungle giants, chattering to one another with the occasional glance in his direction.   
They too left, when they were clean and they’d eaten their fill of the berries bought by others, slipping into the trees with chattering calls until even that faded, leaving Eldar and Lance with the company of the babbling river. 

“Will you answer me one question?” Lance asked after a while, pulling Eldar’s lengths into a firmer braid, interweaving his own personal detail in improvised patterns. “What question?” Eldar smiled; content to remain upon the rock, allowing his fur to dry in the warmth of the sun as Lance’s hands worked his own personal detail amongst his braids. “You said that there are no predators on _Tuatha._ How do you know this?”  
Eldar opened an eye, his ear flickering in the way that showed slight distress, or embarrassment. Lance was patient enough to wait, fingers still braiding Eldar’s fur, weaving in little white stones, smooth from where they had been weathered by the river, with little holes in their middle that made them perfect to tie as the end of the braids. 

Still, Eldar did not talk, but Lance did not pry. He finished the braid and let his fingers rest, lying once again beside his lover, eyes flicking to the final sun that was beginning it’s decent to the horizon, in the direction of the lake. Eldar didn’t mention returning to the ship before they lost the light, and neither did Lance, content to settle until the sun’s warmth was gone and he wanted for clothes. 

And then, just before forgetting he had asked a question, Eldar answered. 

“ _Tuatha_ is sister to _Pantheon.”_

Lance’s body stilled, despite himself not moving. His eyes widened as he leaned up upon elbows, tracing Eldar’s face with his gaze, noticing then the strange hesitation of his _Arenphine._ He hadn’t noticed before, but he noticed it now, in uncertain presses of his fingers, the flicker of his eyes and the slight watering of his eyes that wouldn’t be noticed. His eyes, their usual yellow colour was flecked with white. Sadness.   
“Sister?” Lance asked, unable to voice more without his voice breaking. He felt for his _Arenphine,_ realising that the jungle not only reminded him of home, but—

“ _Tuatha_ was once a part of _Pantheon,_ back when a thousand suns lit the sky. But _Pantheon_ was torn apart in the wars of the old gods, as the stories say.” Eldar spoke with a restraint that Lance only heard when his family was mentioned. He watched, knowing not to speak, trying not to disturb, yet unable to stop himself from reaching out, an arm curling over the Pawther’s stomach, entwining their legs as he nuzzled closer, trying to give comfort as the story continued, sad and quiet.   
“The All-Mother, to protect her children forever, sent them to the trees on the mountain that touched the sky. She tore the mountain from its roots with fire and thunder, and took the sanctuary to the stars. This is her home. The All-Mother provides her children sanctuary, and these that live here,” Eldar said, ears flickering to the sounds of the creatures that filled the jungle with life, “were once the children of _Pantheon._ It is why even Gereen risked his men and his life to protect this place. This is the last part of home we have.” 

Lance curled tighter around his lover’s body, wordlessly, listening him tell the tale of his ancestors that had watched their home rip apart, their children’s children taking to the stars to seek out the All-Mother’s Sanctuary. And, once found, it had become a sacred place that no one must disrupt, not even the Galra. A lot of the surviving Pawther’s had given their lives to protect _Tuatha_ , now enslaved, but having directed the Empire’s attention away from their last home. 

The gift wasn’t just for Lance. It was a chance for Eldar to show his _Arenphine_ his home, although gone, not completely destroyed. They had always talked of it, of Eldar wishing Lance had seen the grand structures, of the ever-present life of the Jungle that swallowed them, the creatures that lived amongst them, the sweet fruits of Gill-Berries, the call of the morning song that began at sunrise… 

“We will protect this place from the Galra,” Lance said into his lover’s chest, promising to do anything and everything within his power to uphold his promise. Eldar leaned into him, face wet with tears, whispering a soft _“thank you,”_ binding them to that moment forever.


	23. A Want To Be Listened To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Genwar is almost upon them, but before Lance and his family can take the fight to the Galra, he has to unite the Solnha to ensure their victory. His obstacle stands in the form of Gereen, and Lance’s patience with the Pawther is done. He decides to take matters into his own hands. Literally.

**System:** Caesura  
**Location:** Inbound For Uris

The morning of the delegation meeting arrived far too soon in Lance’s opinion. He wanted to force himself a lie in, especially after waking too many times through the night, feeling restless and apprehensive.  
Roamer had told him she had big plans for him for today, and the battle that was to commence after one day-cycle upon _Uris,_ when _Genwar_ and the Galran Space Station orbiting her would experience a natural eclipse, effectively cutting out their outgoing communication to any nearby fleets. Irian and his ships had been patrolling the surrounding stars for signs, being able to pick up outgoing and incoming messages, but even with Or’s help, the inscriptions weren’t giving solid readings on the location of _Genwar’s_ incoming supplies.  
The Solnha only had knowledge that they were coming, and that they had to strike before they did. 

“Don’t tell me. You’re having trouble sleeping?” 

Lance looked up from where he had been dawdling, almost mindlessly, eyes catching sight of Rayon leaving his own quarters. “Something like that. I’m not really looking forward to meeting everyone when we reach _Uris,”_ Lance said with a sigh, Rayon falling in time as they walked the corridors together. “Anyone would think you’d be more concerned for the battle to follow.”  
Lance shot his Solnha brother a look. “Trust me; I’d take fighting the Galra over any sort of diplomatic meeting.” He sighed again, running a hand through his hair, slightly greasy and in-need of at least three spa treatments. But now wasn’t the time to think of his hair, not when he had more important things to worry about. Especially Roamer’s words, and the fact he was meeting _all_ the Alliance Leaders. 

“I’m impressed Roamer thought to have us convene on _Uris_ rather than on one of the ships,” the boy said, beginning to ramble. Rayon let him, already familiar with the pattern of the human’s self-comfort. “…middle ground and all that. Shows that not one of us is above the other. We’re like a parliament order system, no one person on top, no one person claiming all the responsibility. Although, maybe Roamer takes a lot of that considering she’s the main thinking brain– _brains_ behind all the missions. And Gereen will deny all knowledge, but I know he relies on her judgement.”

Lance and Rayon let their feet lead where they saw feet, tracing the top corridors in a maze of twists and turns. They slipped past the mess hall, neither quite ready for food – Lance’s nerves were beginning to rub off on the Draora – on past the main hall where they found Kenmare and Delphi talking together. The twin joined his brothers as they headed to the training room, moved from Lance’s claimed storage hold to a larger room that had been reinforced, and Bumi’s inventions mounted on the walls in forms of stun guns with heat tracking and motion sensors to help with training the crew.  
The new room was better too, in its location being directly next to Tho’xemae’s medical wing, meaning any sort of injury could quickly be dealt with by the resident medic. Not that Tho’ was delighted to have his workspace so near a room that was loud, especially when the gladiator bots with missile attachments were let out to play. 

It was still early, meaning even if the three of them trained with one another, even for several Varga, there was still enough time for a meal and showers before arrival at _Uris._ Something that Lance was firmly trying to block from his mind. 

“Are you sure you want to be doing this now?” Kenmare asked, taking up first position opposite Lance. The boy scoffed a laugh, memory supplying him déjà vu, the same question once asked by Anadón, back when he used to wander the halls of the Castle, unable to sleep, vastly different fears plaguing his mind.  
“What would you rather have me do?” Lance challenged, moving first with the single configuration of his bo staff, right into Kenmare’s waiting hands. “Sleep? Rest? Relax before you work yourself up and let your demons get better of you again?” his brother supplied from where he’d propped himself up on a stack of boxes that had been upturned for the sole purpose of seating for when Dart brought _Kirkuk_ and the games of _Edegil_ got more violent that hand holding and fists in faces. 

“This is me fighting my demons,” Lance huffed, pulling his bo from Kenmare’s grip, readying himself again. Kenmare threw a look to Rayon, shrugging. Lance felt anger ripple up his spine. “Look, either help tire me out and fight me seriously, or I’ll warm up the bots and spar against them.” The threat was empty, both knowing Lance preferred to fight against real opponents with the capability of thinking, planning and making mistakes that could throw off his own rhythms. 

“Fine then, little Human. If you want us to fight seriously, let’s see how long you can last against me, with no limitations.”  
“Weapons?”  
“Why not.”

Kenmare took three steps back, back to the line of the fighting ring, a hand on his hip as he pulled on his knuckle busters, the hum of their energy lighting up green when he hit them together, igniting their spark. Lance rolled his shoulders, pushing through his insecurities to find the clear, blank mind space where he could once again rely on his movements and the strength in his body.  
Kenmare, the gentleman he was, waited for Lance, who was taking longer than usual to get himself into the zone of fighting. Not sparring, that wasn’t ever the game he played with the Solnha. He’d learnt enough with Voltron that there was no point babying the fighters when they were fighting a war. The Galra wouldn’t withdraw, they wouldn’t accept a five minute breather, they wouldn’t show mercy.  
Still, it was hard to get the others into the same mind-frame, especially when they saw Lance as a smaller, vulnerable Human that had no natural armour. This would be Kenmare’s mistake. Lance hadn’t fought anyone with any mark other than his bo. This fight just might be enough to distract him long enough. 

Kenmare was a good opponent. Even though he was the smaller of the twins; shorter and thinner, even his shell not as protrusive from him back, his arms were longer and he was still large and imposing and intimidating, especially when the entirety of him; greyish armoured skin, free fingered hands and hulking body charged the distance, heading right for Lance, who stood waiting to meet him.  
He was easily two steps out of reach when the motion of Kenmare’s first fist swung out, but the act had him flinch instinctively, bracing for impact. Instead, the heft of his knuckle-busters parted the air with heat and the thrum of electricity, Lance feeling the power even with the considerable distance between them. 

“I thought we were fighting seriously,” Lance said, darting back another two steps as Kenmare shifted his weight, turning on the ball of his heel so that they were facing each other once again. He didn’t move to strike again. Not yet.  
“We are. I just wanted to give you a warning that getting struck by these is going to hurt. So watch your back and I won’t have to pull my punches.” 

So the pre-emptive strike was a warning. He was still giving him cushioning in the match, another idea that Lance needed to show Kenmare that it was something that wasn’t needed. Lance could see the energy rings that gloved the Draora’s clenched fists, he could hear the power as it fizzled in the air. He’d struck himself enough times with his own gar to know the pain of electricity coursing through his body.  
But then, Kenmare was his friend and although they were sparring, he didn’t really want to see his Solnha brother hurt. 

The second strike was Lance’s move to make. He moved in, then with a quick sidestep, turned his body on to make himself a smaller target, jabbing the Bo too high, hoping to draw out one of Kenmare’s hand to bat it away. Kenmare fell for it, of course, and the momentum of the bunt brought the other end of the Bo into Kenmare’s gut. He grunted, glowering as Rayon cheered out with chuckling laughter. He heard another voice, curiosity bringing his eyes to the door to see Ygrainne stood there, her tail curled around her, looking tired but happy.  
Kenmare stood up and back, looking a little abashed. “Sorry, we didn’t mean to wake anyone.” Ygrainne shrugged – the custom adopted from Lance – the smile not leaving her face. “You weren’t that loud. I was in the infirmary anyway,” she said, a wave of her hand to the wall beside the door, parting training room from the med-bay.  
Before anyone could ask if she was okay, not knowing why she had needed medical care and a night under Tho’xemae’s watch, Ygrainne simply lifted a hand to silence them. “I’m fine, Tho’ checked me out. Just when the ship got hit in the battle I aggravated an old wound. Nothing to worry about.”  
They nodded, but neither fighter moved to restart their spar. 

That was until Ygrainne jumped up onto the crates beside Rayon, wearing a sly grin and putting down a memory chip from her gauntlet. “Location of my secret supply of Ducal, in favour of Lance winning.” Rayon raised an eyebrow, instantly pulled in by the gamble of a stash of drugs, glancing to his brothers that had taken notice. “And what do you get in return?” Ygrainne smiled. “I get to watch Kenmare bumble his way through asking to court Uilt’xen.”  
Which caused the younger Draora to splutter indignantly. “Hey, you’re gambling with Rayon, not with me.”  
His brother laughed. “Actually, I want to see that too. So it looks like it’s me and Ygrainne betting against you and Lance. What do you offer us in return?”  
“Shouldn’t you be fighting?” Lance interrupted before Kenmare could dig them a hole and offer his brother something he’d regret. His words caused the Thorx and older Draora to share looks. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Fine, tag team, two on two?” Rayon offered, making to slip off his seating, but Ygrainne had already jumped into the sparring ring. “Me first. I want to beat Kenmare so that he _has_ to court Uilt’xen.” 

Lance held up his hands, backing off. It didn’t matter if he and Kenmare lost, in terms that he had no forfeit. But no one mentioned anything, knowing Lance already had enough to fret about. Besides, there wasn’t much Lance had that he didn’t freely give anyway, and they couldn’t embarrass him by asking for public displays of affection towards Eldar, considering that was a given most days anyway. 

So with Rayon and Lance happily resting their backs against the far wall, Kenmare and Ygrainne began battling it out while Bumi, who had been planning to work on the calibration of his stun-guns, decided to play as modulator. Where Kenmare was strong, Ygrainne was nimble. Whatever injury she had aggravated during the spat with Galra in the atmosphere of _Wyle_ wasn’t noticed, yet Lance, who had the eyes to observe and assess his opponents noticed that she favoured her right side, and her abdomen was always guarded or turned away when Kenmare made to strike.  
The dexterity and power of her legs got the Draora on his back several times, and a tail swipe caught him across the face, temporarily blinding him when his eyes began to water. Thorx were formidable opponents, holding more power and flexibility in their tails than Pawther’s and many tailed Aliens that Lance had come across during his journey through the stars. He watched as the pair danced, Ygrainne teasing more than hurting Kenmare, pulling his defence apart with his own mistakes, feints and missteps doing more damage to his nerves and his ability to focus than actual physical blows. She disarmed him quickly, throwing the knuckle busters out the ring, out of Kenmare’s reach, levelling the playing field. 

But Kenmare was equally smart as his opponent, feinting with his own counter, only to catch Ygrainne in a three fingered grip around her neck. “Almost got me,” he grinned, his other hand catching the girl’s tail before she could wrap it around one of his limbs. He held her out, arm’s length, throwing her down and pinning her to the floor. 

The Thorx’s feral mind took hold for a moment, panic pulling a screech from her lungs, claws out, scraping long hard marks over the Draora’s skin, catching between his outer armour, drawing blood. But not enough to release her, until Ygrainne saw that she had already lost.  
Deeming herself strong enough not to call for a loss however, Ygrainne poured all her effort into releasing her tail, the limb darting out to the waiting Rayon, who felt tip to palm, accepting the swap. Kenmare barely had time to disentangle himself from Ygrainne before his brother barrelled into him, the two of them rolling, yelling, bodies slamming into the wall as they let loose with their own strength, the rough housing still all without animosity. For Rayon his prize was drugs. For Kenmare, he’d get to best his older brother and save himself from the humiliation Uilt’xen would put him through when she denied his courtship. 

Lance laughed joyously when Bumi squealed and darted out the way, deciding modulator was best played on the sidelines. Others had joined them now. They crowded around the walls, sitting on top of the mess of shipping crates meant for tables, some sitting on shoulders for better views.  
One of the Trigamon had set up a live feed to broadcast ship wide so Foci and Delphi, as well as those unlucky enough not to fit in the room could still have the pleasure of viewing the fighting live.  
Or’ was one of the loudest, yelling out support for both of her family from where she had clambered up onto one of the mounted guns that remained fixed on the walls. From up there, she had a wonderful vantage point on the match without having to be worried about being trampled underfoot, especially when Rayon and Kenmare smashed into the wall, just underneath her swinging feet.  
The gambling match became a spectacle, not just a chance for Lance to rid his mind of the upcoming responsibilities, but for a chance for the entire crew to turn their cheek, if only for a moment or two, before the upcoming battle. 

As with any fight that saw the Draora fighting one another, the victor was Rayon, who had literally picked his baby brother up and thrown him. Head hit floor and he was disorientated enough to accept Lance’s hand that tagged him out the match.  
He had shed his scarf and hood in favour of not being restrained by clothing, ignoring the prickling feeling of eyes upon his scar. No one whispered or murmured about it though. Lance wondered if the scars did make him look stronger. With one as ugly and gruesome as the one that marred the lower skin of his back, and the tale that clung to the crescent that pierced his neck. Maybe his _Arenphine_ was right. 

“Are you sure you want to keep fighting?” Rayon asked, stepping back to allow Kenmare to his feet, watching him shake out his limbs to rid himself of the pain and disorientation that still clung to him, surrounding his mind in a fluffy haze. He suppressed his hurt behind a look of boredom, accepting a drink from Tho’, coming to sit beside Ygrainne on an empty box. The look in his eye was begging Lance not to lose this fight. Not to show up Rayon, but because he didn’t fancy having to face his fears concerning the Daratrine that sat near him, clapping him on the back with a grin and her own pointers to his footwork that would’ve given him leverage over Rayon’s heavier weight. 

“Are you sure you’re not just scared?” Lance teased, spinning the handle configuration in his hand. He didn’t have his mask, nor his usual body armour, but they weren’t in a real fight and Lance didn’t feel the need to ask for it. Besides, it was more freeing without the extra weight, even if it did offer him protection against Rayon’s fists.

Rayon eyed the weapon cautiously, not having been up against Lance with anything other than their fists and the Gladiator bo Lance still used from time to time – the one he’d taken from the Castle.  
His eyes passed from the weapon, then back to Lance, where his body remained on show; his scarf that now lay abandoned revealing more than just the scars that littered his neck. “Because you know, I wouldn’t think any less of you if you’re tired, if you want to back out,” he offered with a smirk, eyes flashing deliberately to Lance’s neck again. Then, noticing that his hickeys were on show, Lance realised the hidden meaning.  
Lance flashed his own smirk, body moving into a ready position. “I’ve bested Eldar in bed, now I’ll best you. How do you feel about that challenge?”  
Rayon laughed in acceptance, taking another step forward, ready to begin the fight. 

Lance withdrew his bo, hoping to tease Rayon into the false sense of security that this was the only mark his weapon had. Besides, he hadn’t really fought with it before, so it would be nice to give them all a try against a real opponent, and not just Bumi’s weird and wonderful creations.  
His smile returned, cocky, suggestive, and Lance knew he had successfully pulled Rayon into his first “feint.” He let the Draora make the first move, similar to Kenmare’s initial strike. This time, there was a follow through in feet motion, and Lance had to block with his staff to avoid an armoured foot to his unguarded shin. The Human couldn’t defend against the second punch thrown his way at the same time.  
Lance reeled back, tasting blood in his mouth. His head only made things fuzzy for just a split second, before another fist came into his peripheral, moving quick, quicker than the one that had just struck him.  
_Dodge?_ No, he didn’t have time. Instead, he turned his chin just before the knuckled connected with his jaw, the jerk of his neck bringing him back enough that the fist moved with his head, leaving no real injury other than a bloody lip where his jaw was snapped shut, teeth catching his bottom lip. 

Lance played the part of the injured fool well, stumbling backwards. Rayon, thinking he’d hurt his brother, spurred by the fearful cries of the crowd, surged forward to “catch” Lance before he could fall, not expecting the bo that spun around, catching his unguarded left side with another powerful bunt. Lance didn’t stop there, his fingers sliding down the length of the Argentums, his wrist flicking to snap it at the press of the opposite arrow symbol, using the sudden appearance of his duel-blades for a _one, two_ attack on their flat sides under the Draora’s right arm, roughly where his ribs would be and the bruising that was beginning to appear from where Kenmare had been able to land a nasty blow.  
Lance didn’t let up though. He barely let Rayon stumble back, away from the triple attack before he shot forward, his head coming into contact with the Draora’s nose. There was a crack and the boy stumbled back to see black blood blooming across Rayon’s face. His own skull hurt from the impact of practically head-butting a wall, but it did nothing to stop the smile on his face. 

“Hey, an improvement,” the boy goaded, flexing his wrists to test the weight of the dual blades. He’d only really let himself mess about with the light-sword, and not really against any of the gladiators after finding out that, like in the movies, the concentrated laser could successfully cut metal in half. It certainly had made fixing the spar-bots harder, leaving Lance to only really mess about with his Bo.  
The dual-blades were definitely more hard-hitting than their feather-weight they implied, and judging by the way Rayon was still trying to gain distance between himself and Lance, it was safe to say that even getting hit with their blunt sides, hurt.  
Lance had to give it to whoever created this thing, all these weapons were bloody amazing.  
Actually thinking about it, it was probably Bumi. Something like this seemed like it was right up his street. 

Lance’s fingers itched to pull out the familiarity of the Blaster or even go full out with the light-sword. But the fight was serving as a good distraction and Lance didn’t want to give the game up, just yet. 

Dimly aware of a sudden hush that befell the crowd, Lance rolled his shoulders again, goading Rayon into moving. He was planning to copy Ygrainne’s tactic in balance with his own, observe and strike; use Rayon’s own mistakes against him. 

Rayon moved. 

Lance jerked back, aside as another blow, this time aimed for the square of his chest, pushed past in a blur of blue and grey. Lance felt, rather than saw the incoming threat of a second fist, Rayon relying on his same attack, yet Lance already knew it would be different from the upward trajectory his arm was following.  
He ducked in time, his dual blades too far away to cross and defend, but he pulled them in all the same, his wrist lower than he liked, feeling his hair ruffle as his own sword passed close to his skull. Too close. 

Shit, Lance felt his rhythm tumble, forced back, forced to drop to the floor. He rolled clear, stood. _Don’t let him connect,_ Lance thought, the hum of electricity spiking and he knew finally, Rayon was using his knuckle busters. Lance rolled again, snapping blades into a bo, changing his mind mid-shift, instead pulling forth the gar, levelling the shaft so that the tip pressed into Rayon’s thigh.  
He roared like a bull, weapons deflecting the surge of energy, clearing his path as he charged in, two steps, one step. Lance whirled, low, letting the fists swim in the air above his head. He didn’t think, he only did, lunging in, avoiding one flying fist, deflecting another, dishing out his own only to collide with a third. 

The energy of electricity coursed through his body, teeth clashing against one another, legs locking as he tilted back.  
Back back back, he had to get _back._ The fall turned into a roll, a dart, a feint. The blow of his next attack glanced off the Draora’s ribcage, a sharp sting in his own arm where buster skimmed flesh and his limb jerked with a spasm. Grip weak on his gar, the blow wasn’t as powerful, Lance stumbling back just as Rayon did. 

They were panting, heavy breathing, sucking in air.  
Strong fighters, nimble and fast. They were both setting the pace and keeping up with the other, oblivious to the roars of the crowd, the want of the audience that grew in the room. 

The fighters circled one another, observing and avoiding. It was simple, but it couldn’t last forever. Everyone wanted action, the fighters wanting victory but only one could have it.  
Ticks passed with no contact, and Lance felt the pressure emanating from all sides, the crew’s shout piercing the bubble of his zone, the onslaught of jeering nearly and audible chant; _punch-kick-strike-win._

_{Kill.}_

Lance’s head snapped right at the sound of the final word, swearing blind it was Anadón. But no shadow-beast prowled the edges of the sparring ring, not behind, left, right or forward, where Rayon was charging in, done with the silence, ready to claim his victory and Kenmare’s embarrassment to hold up his side of the gamble.  
He lashed out, fist gloved in energy aimed for Lance’s bare gut. But Lance’s instincts blocked it with the blade of one short sword. The other sword came to Rayon’s thigh, meeting flesh, but dealing no more damage than a paper cut. His body seemed to react on its own, mind jarring in the shock of remembering Anadón whilst his body danced without conscious thought.  
He saw a fist, his body slid to the right, opposite to the direction he had been planning to move. Lance’s vision blurred; a mass of black looming from his left. Too late, he realised it was a wall and Lance was cornered. His chest explodes in pain, lungs free of air as Rayon lands a firm and centre blow in the middle of his chest. 

It doesn’t put him down though. It puts him back, shoved against the wall and winded so that it will be years before he can breathe again. But actually, right now, he’s more focused on fighting. Air will come naturally; he won’t need to breathe for the next ten seconds if he times this right. Shaking off the haze that makes everything move half a second too slow. His fingers find the crosshairs, his hands holding his needle-sniper and Rayon’s shocked face sits three inches from the end of the barrel, frozen. 

Rayon wasn’t as quick as Kenmare or Ygrainne when it came to withdrawing, too used to winning his fight to even consider backing down, until the barrel is humming and Lance’s lungs start to fill. It fucking hurts, but Lance remembers seeing Tho’ here somewhere. He’ll have a shot of _Eyre,_ hopefully a nap and he’ll be right as rain when the _Godolphin_ finally reaches the surface of _Uris._

Lance’s fingers twinge and the barrel of his sniper shifts. With a shake of his hand and a furrowed brow, Lance realigns the gun, aiming it square to the Alien’s forehead. He manages to keep his fingers from the trigger, in case his body spasms and his fingers feel like clenching the damn thing.  
Still, Rayon is at his mercy. 

“Surrender or defeat?” 

The Draora’s eyes narrowed, too slow to do anything but take the shot. Yet a smirk flashes across his features, leaning in, closing the three inches until the greyish blue of his skin is pressed against the thin shaft of the barrel. 

“You’re bluffing.”  
“Want to call it?” Lance pushed, still in the mindset of _“fight or die.”_ Rayon is pushing his luck, much to everyone else’s worry, if the silence of the room has anything to say. “I have a gun pressed to your head Rayon, you’ve already lost.”  
“What did you say Lance? You only lose if you can’t fight, or you’re killed.”  
“And the second I pull the trigger you’ll be dead. You can’t fight your way out of this one.”  
“But it doesn’t mean I can no longer fight.”

Lance steeled his arms, pulled the sniper up and pulled the trigger. A blast of light shot forth from the gun, the noise like a firework, the wall smoking between the neck and shoulder of Uilt’xen. Her eyes flashed, Kenmare’s too but Lance’s are narrowed as he once again presses the barrel into Rayon’s forehead. 

“Those may be the conditions of a lost battle, but surrender is acceptable too. In the face of death, offer surrender. Don’t offer defeat, but fool your enemy into thinking they’ve taken your victory. You keep your life and you keep your promises to the Solnha, and remain a soldier to fight against the Galra when they least expect it.” 

The Draora stopped, the smirk upon his lips fading, murmurs growing as Lance’s words began to settle.  
Then slowly, deliberately, Rayon lowered his hands, shedding his knuckle busters and taking a step back. “Then I submit, and live to fight you again, brother.” 

Lance accepted the surrender.  
He withdrew his sniper, sheathed it and returned it to his hip. 

Quick as a flash, Rayon moved, a hand on Lance’s and another around his throat. His smirk returned, laughter breaking the sudden rise in voices from the crowd. “How’s this for fooling you into victory?” he grinned, not needing to put pressure in the grip around Lance’s neck, simply hanging there like a heavy necklace, his point proven. And so was Lance’s.  
“Very well done,” he grinned. “You’ve won, I cannot fight now I’ve disarmed myself.”

“No, no no Lance you can’t lose!” Kenmare suddenly shouted from his place between the Thorx and Daratrine. The panic in his eyes was clear, but sparked when Ygrainne slotted an arm around his neck. “Nope. You and Lance lost. That means we get to keep our spoils, and you, dear Kenmare, have to hold up your end of the bargain.”  
“No, no!” Kenmare wailed, Rayon and Lance laughing loudly. Some of the crew joined in, yet not as strong, no one else knowing the true consequences of the fight. Of course the fighters themselves had gambled on themselves, but usually it was for drugs, extra food rations and dishing out their own turn of rota on janitor duty. 

“Go on Kenmare, ask her,” Lance called, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Rayon, his words slowing Tho’ who had been coming over to tend to everyone’s wounds, or at least usher them into the infirmary. The crowd took notice too.  
“What? No, you didn’t say I had to ask now. You said that I would and I will. Just not now,” he blushed, adding the last bit quietly. Rayon, ever the loving older brother, wasn’t going to let Kenmare off the hook that easy. “Nope. You accepted the gamble, now pay up.” 

The younger Draora had the floor when he cursed his brother, the laughter dying down back into tense silence when he stood, took a deep breath and rounded on Uilt’xen who had been sharing an upturned crate with him.  
Instead of being sweet and courteous, Kenmare stood with a face as red as the sun, eyes tight shut and practically bellowed, “I like you, please let me court you!” 

Uilt’xen, for a word, was stunned.  
Then she’s laughing, and so is everyone else, and Kenmare’s face is going redder and redder and a coil of guilt tightens in Lance’s stomach—

“Of course dummy.” She hits him, because that’s how she shows affection, and the Daratrine flips a hand signal to the crowd, which evidently is incredibly rude, if Tho’xemae’s reaction is anything to go by. But the lecture will have to wait as Dart calls for drinks in the mess hall and Ygrainne takes the medic’s attention with a few words whispered in his ear. “Fine, fine, _later,”_ he hisses. “But I want you and the boys in the infirmary. For Durm’s sake we’ve got a war to fight come dawn and you lot are keeping me on my heels with all this nonsense fighting.” 

Lance and the twins don’t fight Tho’xemae’s orders, especially when Lance sees Eldar in the doorway, a fake cowl upsetting his beautiful face. “So, not only do I wake to find you’ve already gone, but I have to find out that you’re having another battle to the death, _without_ your armour.” Ah yes, Eldar the worrier.  
“I’m sorry love. I couldn’t sleep, but I didn’t plan to battle.”  
“You should’ve woken me,” Eldar pouted, pulling the boy closer to scent up along his neck. Lance let his lover do as he wished, smelling the saltiness of uncertainty and pain from seeing his _Arenphine_ hurt. With the bond getting stronger every day, Lance’s senses were beginning to heighten, meaning he can pick up on the faint sourness that permeates the air around his lover.  
And when Lance bares his neck, he smells the crisp juices of apple, sighing into the feeling of Eldar’s fur rubbing against his cheek. “I did try,” he says, and he’s not lying; Eldar can hear his steady heartbeat. “Granted I didn’t try too hard. We did have a late night.” And by that, Lance was talking about the hickey’s that wrapped around his neck like a necklace, red and purple and pink, the same colour as the blush know sitting upon the Pawther’s cheeks. 

Lance’s grin widened. “Don’t worry. I still love you.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

The meeting was anything but what Lance had let himself imagine. At first his mind had explored the idea of the aliens all gathering in a cave dwelling, much like those that he had been forsaken in when captive by Ovule back on _Torous._  
He imagined a low flickering flame barely encroaching the darkness of the dank, gloomy cave, where everyone gathered, cowering in the shadows, covering their faces and speaking in tongues. 

Instead the meeting was in an open field.  
Or as much an open field as the surface of _Uris_ could offer, it being made up of craggy mountains and low sweeping valleys of stone and sparse grass. The ships had docked in the base of one such valley, or up one of the hillsides, the crews of all the ships spilling out.  
They clamoured to the sides of the steep valley, loud and rambunctious as they staked claim to seats – nothing more than tumbled rocks and twisting roots, settling themselves into place along the steep gradients of the valley walls. 

The crowd overlooked the tent that stood erect at the bottom where the land flattened out for a stretch of approximately one hundred feet before rising again.  
The tent wasn’t as much a tent as it was simply a canopy held up on four poles; a covering to ward off the heat of the sun while the delegation party talked.  
Or argued, which was what Lance expected after listening in to plenty of conferences over the transmission feeds. 

Roamer, in all her infinite knowledge, had deemed the meeting to be done within the company of everyone. It would do no good in hopes of harbouring trust for the conference to be held behind closed doors.  
That’s why the valley had been chosen where the _entirety of the Solnha Pirates_ could come together to witness for themselves.  
As Lance watched, eyes sweeping the pirates that filled the valley from where they left their ships; he began to notice that a lot of them were keeping to their own little groups; an odd prospect when a few were of the same species, and they were all fighting the same war against the Galra.  
Still, there seemed to be the odd groups that would mingle – the Trigamons for one, who had all been from the same colony and split into the various fleets to improve the mechanic and scientific support across the entire Solnha. Lance stifled a laugh when Bumi practically rugby tackled his friends, the chattering of the small, hip-height aliens enough to break whatever unspoken word deemed the mixing of groups to… _not._

Still, it was noticeable when others deliberately kept their space. Lance tried not to let his mind linger as he passed, staying in time with Eldar and the _Godolphin’s_ party of delegates, heading to the base of the valley with the Draora twins behind him with Uilt’xen bringing up the rear. They were Eldar’s main go-to when it came to displays of strength, knowing Rayon and Kenmare already had a reputation with the other crews.  
There was no one who didn’t know Uilt’xen was one to talk with her fists. Crossing her was a sure-fire way to get a heavy-handed lecture. 

Everyone parted to let Eldar and the group through, reaching the canopy to find Roamer and her chosen delegates; Cersaelk, Tanur and the Angkor who challenged Lance in his game of _Edegil,_ and someone who Lance was yet to learn their name.  
He wasn’t the only Angkor. Of course, Irian was present too, Captain of _Dawnil_ and his party; three Hycis gathered together. Fellfrir, _Sault_ of _Fellmot_ stood gathered with her delegates, another Vhoadan, a Pawther just as tall as Eldar and a Phiord, with green skin and camouflage of leaves the made it hard to see where their clothes stopped and skin began. 

There were other aliens gathered that Lance didn’t recognise. 

Roamer had probably already told him their names amidst their many discussions since meeting over the course of the past three days. Maybe Eldar had told him last night, but between then and now had been worrying and nightmares and restlessness that tucked such memories away. Whenever he had been told was irrelevant when right now he knew he didn’t know, and would probably end up embarrassing himself in front of everyone. 

_{Because that’s all your ever good for. Screwing up.}_

Lance’s body tensed, his scent souring. Eldar noticed, as did the other Pawther Lance would later learn his name as Viridall. No one said words of concern aloud, but their eyes flickered over the sudden tenseness of the boy’s body.  
He gave a shake of his head to Eldar when Prime made to re-join him, receiving a nod and kept to his path in the direction of the Hyaline and the other faction leaders. 

Viridall greeted Eldar with warmth and familiarity, two sets of hands clasping, forearms pushed to one another before a press of their foreheads. It could be seen as intimate, if Lance didn’t know that this was the respectful way that close bonded Pawther greeted one another.  
And although Viridall and Eldar had not known one another during the lives on Pantheon, they had grown close when Fellfrir found Viridall working within the underground market.  
She gave him place on her ship and brought him to fight in the war. Eldar had offered a place on the _Godolphin,_ but Viridall wanted to pay his debts to the Vhoadan first. 

Lance’s attention was pulled from their display when another took his attention. It was a Hyaline, just like Roamer, although his heart shaped head, throbbing a shocking magenta, did so at a much slower pace than the _Wearne’s_ captain. He was happy tucking into whatever beverage lay in the triple dozen of caskets before him, pulled in close by his pant-tackles that refused to budge.

Sitting on the floor behind the Hyaline, sat a plump fluff ball. It had no legs and no eyes to speak of, all head and not much else. The only reason Lance knew it to be Alien and not some kind of fluffy bean bag, was the mouth that was speaking, conversing with another of its kind, slightly smaller.  
They were pale in colour, with touches of yellow and orange, like a snowball rolled in sand. 

Lance congratulated himself with the bean-bag nickname, his eyes moving on to another alien. He hadn’t thought it an alien at first, just a scene of stars. Which was… odd, because it was the middle of the day and there shouldn’t be a hole in the planet, looking out to space…  
But sure enough, opposite him on their own tumble of rocks, was a cluster of stars – a cut out of the planet to form only the sight of space and nebulae. It was in the shape of a creature, two brighter stars glowing where one would presume to be the face.  
The shape of the alien began to move, slowly shifting until Lance was staring at the shape of himself, wispy hair and clothes, like a shadow made of colour, yet… _real._  
_“Wow,_ ” he breathed, unable to hide his grin. “That means they like you,” Kenmare leaned in, brushing his hand to his chin before sending it to the constellation-Lance that nodded at the salute of respect. 

The Hyaline, the Bean Bags and Constellation-Lance had all come to the meeting, after hearing that the Solnha had changed their plans of surviving, to one of fighting the Galra.  
They had heard of Lance, who had been the one to unite the Alliance, no longer deeming themselves as pirates, but as rebels against the Empire. They weren’t pirates themselves, but the denizens of planets recently freed from Galra control.  
Roamer had told him of such, saying that if they were pleased by the proceedings, would lend their support. 

_“Gornonyyn,”_ Fellfrir offered as greeting as Eldar’s party reached the flat land of the valley floor. The Sapphire Pawther offered the same in reply, approaching where the heads of the Solnha had congregated. Roamer offered Lance a wave before pulling Eldar into a friendly hug, as if she hadn’t seen him every day for the past three days. 

Despite the heavy implications of such a large congregation – considering _all_ the Solnha pirates were gathered in one place – the mood of the afternoon wasn’t as nerve racking as Lance had been working himself up towards.  
Roamer’s words that he’d have a part to play definitely hadn’t helped, but now he wondering if the Hyaline was simply pulling his leg.  
Well actually, considering the others had come because of Lance’s actions, he thought that maybe he _did_ have a part to play. He hoped he wouldn’t have to make a thrilling speech about fighting in a war and the importance of working together for a greater cause. The only speech he kind of knew was the from Brave Heart, but his memory for the old classic was sketchy at best.  
And he couldn’t exactly start out with _“they may take our land, but they’ll never take our freedom.”_ The Galra already had that sorted out with their many, many enslaved planets and all their prisoners. Looked like William Wallace wasn’t coming to his rescue today. 

_Great._

When formal greetings of the new arrivals were out the window, every one fell about the place, onto rocks and the ground, waiting for the remaining party – Gereen, fashionably late as always.

Lance let himself sit between the twins, or let himself believe that he had chosen that, ignoring their protective glances to one another. Eldar had obviously pulled them aside and given them instructions not to let Lance out of their sight, after Lance refused to not be present. He wasn’t going to freak out, he wasn’t going to allow his body to drop, not like before. He had Eldar beside him, the power twins and Uilt’xen’s heavy fists.  
Just for good luck, he’d taken a shot of _Eyre,_ just to settle his mind, focusing on the warm feeling pooling in his gut, even as the _Rexx-Marth_ descended from the clouds, quietening the gathered crowds for only a moment.  
Then they were back to talking and Gereen’s party was ignored as they descended the sides of the valley. His crew parted, each racing to their family or friends with warm greetings and loud laughter. Lance saw Toil and Ygrainne kiss passionately from there too-long-time apart, watching as a Balmeran greeted Ryul with a head butt and fist bump that turned into a game of patty cake that, if Lance tried to learn it, he’d probably end up breaking his bones or something. 

Lance scanned the crowd again, ignoring the procession from the North side that saw Gereen and his supporters filing in. He glared once more at the crowd, seriously beginning to regret his decision not to be up on Foci’s shoulder like Or’. But then, no, he’d hate to be up there too, too far to hear the proceedings of the treaty, unable to throw in his two cents and keep the peace, knowing that a dispute was likely to break out.  
Especially since Gereen had the Arroyo siblings tagging along. Garecht luckily wasn’t invited, but Jo’ Fir was, although his eyes remained on his sister and her lover, apparently wanting to be on the sidelines, rather than under the canopy. 

Gereen and his advocates finally reached the tent, offering only words as greeting, no hand shake or press of the palm like everyone else had experienced. Lance watched as Fellfrir put herself between her Pawther and Gereen, sharing a knowing look to Eldar when he caught the other’s tail within his own.  
Rightly so, because the stranger’s face had morphed into one of utter hatred, more so than what Lance felt towards Gereen, or Ovule. _Well this wasn’t a good sign._

The Viridian Pawther looked to Lance, eyes flashing with anger, but with Eldar and the twins protecting him, Gereen could do no more than glare with an anger that was unjustly deserved. Lance actually hadn’t done anything to him accept turn down his invitation of being a slave. And it wasn’t like Gereen had offered, but more so tried to kidnap Lance, even sending Ovule, who had caught the prey’s scent and deemed Lance worth his time. If it caused strife between the Solnha Alliance leaders, well then that was just a bonus, wasn’t it.  
He was stood to the side, eye fixed on the Human with a wry smile. Uilt’xen moved to block off the Arroyo’s view, discreetly enough that no one looked over. Ovule’s grin faded, his game ruined.  
He turned to his sister, head to her ear, only turning from her when Roamer spoke up, taking centre stage, hushing the voices under the canopy as well as those that swarmed around them from the rest of the crew’s. 

“With us all assembled, may we begin the planning for the conquest of _Genwar.”_


	24. A Want For Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peace talks. With the entire Solnha to witness. _What could possibly go wrong?_

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

The meeting began like it should, with Roamer taking the floor first.   
With her extensive thinking over the matter of _Genwar_ itself and its importance in the inevitable war with the Galra, she got the stage with explaining, not only that _Genwar_ was a prime location for Galra being the centre of _Caesura_ and the last largest Galran mining facility in the nearest six star systems. 

“ _Genwar_ isn’t just a mining facility. It has a production of Androids, and its orbital space station has large enough satellites that they can monitor for the _entire_ six systems. If we want to be able to make a difference, if we want to keep the planets and systems that we’ve stolen back from the Empire, then _Genwar_ stands as our last real obstacle.”   
They knew this, of course they all did, but it still stood that there were some that needed convincing that a full frontal assault on both the orbiting space station and the base on the surface was the best step forward. 

Roamer and her entourage didn’t need convincing. Neither did the _Godolphin’s_ crew, having complete faith in their Prime and the faith he had in the Hyaline. 

Fellfrir herself was sceptical, wanting to know all the facts, all the risks and all possible consequences for both; fighting and not. Irian stood on the sidelines with her, although with Iefyr already siding with Roamer (him being the Angkor that had been tagging along with her crew and facing Lance in a challenge of _Edegil),_ he was simply attending for the sake of formalities.   
Gereen however, was dead set against Roamer’s plans for liberation, wanting instead only to rain fire down on the unstable planet and let its unstable and volatile core fix the problem itself. Which would destroy the Galra, but also the prisoners that they kept to mine _Genwar’s_ natural resources of _Hexhoth_ – the compound acting as a catalyst to blow up the entire planet like a bomb. 

“We plan to free the Hycis, not commit an act of genocide, simply because it is the easier option,” Uilt’xen growled, getting in Gereen’s face before Irian’s Hycis could do it themselves, clenched fists and tight jaws where they realised the green Pawther wanted to blow up their home planet with their brethren still on the surface.   
Uilt’xen’s move left Lance in the sights of Ovule, but the Arroyo was enjoying the inevitable fist fight considering the short little Daratrine was reaching the end of her tether. 

Or, she would’ve, if Eldar hadn’t placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and soft at the same time. Viridall held back the Hycis. “We’re not blowing up _Genwar._ That’s not the plan Gereen, so get it out your head and stop trying to spread your hatred to everyone else. Zarkon is enough for an enemy, we don’t need you too.”   
“I am not an enemy,” the younger spat.   
“Then stop acting like one.”

It was Orvis who pulled Gereen back from the fight, her brother grumbling about the lack of a show, but with Uilt’xen still in Eldar’s grip, he was free to stare hungrily at the Human.   
Lance shuddered, but made no other show that the predator’s gaze affected him. 

He schooled his focus on Gereen, matching Uilt’xen’s stone face glare, showing that he didn’t approve of the Pawther’s attitude, nor his words. They were barely ten minutes into this damn conference and already a fist fight had nearly broken out and Lance’s fingers kept twitching for his weapon, wondering how many laser beams would Gereen’s body hold before he admitted defeat and they could focus on the coming battle.   
Shit, they only had a few Varga until the Eclipse was set to start, and everyone needed to be battle ready before _Genwar’s_ moon came around. 

Lance glanced at the sky, as if it would tell him the time. Rayon noticed; his expression sobering from amusement of Uilt’xen’s actions, understanding Lance’s own concerns from the movement of his head. He cleared his throat. 

“We’re not here to fight, that’s not the reason that all of us have been gathered here, so throw those ideas out of your heads now,” he drawled, bored voice carrying enough weight that everyone turned their eyes to him, even the Hyaline that was sprawled, half drunk, on the tumbling rocks of the valley floor. 

“We all came here so that we could come to the agreement that _Genwar_ is our next plan of attack, and I already know that you all agree, if not, none of you wouldn’t be here.   
“So enough with the theatrics, or you can leave right now. But if you ever find yourselves in trouble, seeking shelter and safety, know that the Alliance will not provide it. I know I wouldn’t raise a hand to help someone who’s turned their back on me when I asked for help.” 

Despite the drawl of his tone, everyone felt the weight of his words.   
Rayon was right. The meeting wasn’t just to determine the future of _Genwar,_ but also to see where everyone stood, if peace for such a large, and diverse community could succeed, or if they were just kidding themselves with curtains and theatre makeup. 

Even if they all made a unanimous decision to fight for the liberation of _Genwar,_ the truth of the matter lay in their ability to work together to ensure victory. If they couldn’t do so with just the talking, then was it even worth trying whatever plan Roamer had come up with?

Before Lance could lose all hope of a peace treaty, Irian spoke up. “He is right. We all came here because we thought we could play our part to fight in the war against the Galra. I’m here, not just for _Genwar,_ but so I don’t lose my home planet. You’ve already lost Pantheon, so you should understand the pain of losing better than anyone,” the Angkor said, eyes flashing, wings fluttering with agitation.   
Gereen turned his cheek but said nothing, his tail whipping back and forth behind him out of anger. But Irian and Rayon’s words kept his tongue in-check, and Roamer was once again centre-stage. 

She skipped the plan of persuading the Alliance to move on _Genwar;_ that matter already having been settled. Now, she ran through all the details that she and her fleet had collected on the planet itself.   
First, came the overall view of the planet. With one orbiting star, _Genwar_ operated on a cycle of sixteen Varga of daylight, followed by ten of twilight, according to the planet’s current position and its cool season. 

The planet itself was one of a tropical climate, so most of its surface was covered in dense rainforest, similar to _Tuatha_ and _Pantheon,_ but with the recent surges of heat from the Galran mining operations, it had heated the entire planet enough that a drought had hit, and a lot of the flora and fauna were suffering.   
This lessened the risk of the ground patrol for the idea of running into predators, but if they did, the creatures would be far more desperate for meat. 

The Galra base, or the main entry point that Roamer had found, and decided would be the best place to sneak in, lay at the top of a plateau; the shelf-like natural structure overlooking the rainforest, as well as the path that the ground unit would be taking to reach the base, and retreat with the prisoners, if all went to plan. Keyword: _if._

“The rainforest is full of canals and rivers that run across the surface. Or, they used to, but due to the Galra’s interference with dams on top of the plateau to control the flow of the rivers, a lot of the ones on the rainforest floor have been left to dry up, leaving behind paths, vegetation free, where we can send a stealth team close to the plateau.   
“They’re to scale the cliff face under cover of darkness, and then infiltrate the base while the main fleet distracts the Galra and draws their gunfire in a space battle above, with the orbiting base as our target. Our goal doesn’t have to be liberation of the planet, but liberation of the Hycis. And once the prisoners are out, and we are facing defeat, then only in that moment, if we are desperate enough, then _Genwar_ can be sacrificed to ensure that the Galra’s foothold in _Caesura_ and the star systems is eliminated for good.” 

There was murmuring between the Solnha. The plan itself sounded effective.   
Even Gereen was nodding along at the knowledge that blowing up _Genwar_ was still in the cards, but only as a last resort. 

The Hycis, Nye, one of a group of survivors picked up from _Zaltarish_ looked glum, but when Roamer asked if for his opinion, he said he knew that the destruction of _Genwar_ was a risk. It was at risk of self-destructing now, with the Galra factories and too much pressure on the inner structures with the Empire’s desire for Hexhoth, which was used in the production of their armoury.   
“What matters are _Genwar’s_ children. We must rescue those that Galra keep. If _Genwar_ must sacrifice herself for the sake of her children, then we will honour her choice and look to the future with bright eyes.”

Commendable. Brave.   
Lance felt a strong surge of respect for the Hycis opposite him.   
He couldn’t even think of offering up the Earth as collateral damage to such a mission, even if every single living creature had been evacuated, human and animal.  
Earth was more than just a planet. It was _home._ It was the birth of all Humans, the beginning of everyone’s story, the constant that tied humanity together.  
The thought of losing it, even more so than the thought of never being able to return, even if it wasn’t destroyed…? _Unthinkable._

And in that moment, Lance decided he would do anything he could, _not_ to sacrifice _Genwar_ for the sake of the Solnha’s victory.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

It was another twenty or so Dobosh of arguing, or more so, commenting, on Roamer’s sound plan.  
She had thought of everything, from which ships to be used in the space battle to the one waiting for pick up, as well as the smaller shuttles to be used to navigate _Genwar’s_ dried-up waterways. She even considered every single Solnha pirate, weighing them for all of their strengths, weakness and the like, when considering who to be a part of the small, but elite team of Aliens that would take to the surface to infiltrate and evacuate the Hycis prisoners.

Of course, even with her two brains thinking through the pros and cons of every choice made, the others weren’t quite as accepting as Lance, who was ready to hand complete control over to Roamer. She was practically already in charge of the Solnha as main thinking tank for the entire alliance, so why not make it official.   
Her fellow Hyaline was one such, who saw fit to remark on practically every choice Roamer had made. Even though he was too drunk to stand, he stuck with his guns to be as irritating as Ovule’s constant glaring, dragging up his own questions without pause. 

Roamer calmed all of his _“fears”_ with her own, thought-out counters, all having already been offered by at least one of her brains when she was formulating a plan with the best possible outcome.

“So you’re dividing the Solnha from the get go, meaning that neither front will have full strength.”  
 _The space battle’s main point is to be a distraction for the stealth attack on the far side of the base. The sky-fight will draw out the numbers to make it easier for those on the surface to get in and get out.   
The numbers will be low, no more than seven on the ground, which will not lessen the strength of the ships. _

“What support will there be for the team on the surface?”   
_The rainforest is the perfect cover for getting in and getting out. There would be no need for secondary air-support because that would eliminate the possibilities of stealth._

“You say there is the risk of predators. What if the group is attacked before they even reach the base?”  
 _The seven that have been chosen are excellent fighters and will be able to defeat any predator that they may encounter in the jungle. If they could not, then sending them into a nest of Galra soldiers would be suicide. They will be adept to handle anything they may experience on the ground. _

“Wouldn’t it be better to attack during light hours and give the stealth team optimal chances of seeing their enemy?”  
 _Targeting at night will give the ambushers cover of darkness and hide our team from the Galra. They’ll have equipment to help counteract their inability to see in the low-light._  
 _Besides, the purpose of fighting tonight is to fight during the eclipse, when the space station and the surface base will be cut off from one another for a small window, as well as cut off from any Galra fleets or patrols in the vicinity. It is the best bet at hitting hard when the enemy cannot call out for help._

“Then who will you be sending to lead this mission?” 

Roamer straightened up, judging her fellow Hyaline with cold eyes, the snap of her tentacles loud in the open air. “I will be _sending_ no one. Instead, I will _ask_ who I think best suits this mission, while asking the rest to carry out their task of support and decoy.” 

“But I want to remind everyone that I have planned this _extensively,_ so when I say the individuals chosen have been done so carefully, and will offer the best chance of success. That is why they have been chosen, and that is why I will be asking them to carry out such a dangerous mission.” Her eyes landed on Eldar, the pair of them sharing a flicker of understanding.   
Eldar nodded his head. “I agree with Roamer.” 

“Well I don’t.”   
It was Orvis who had thrown in her two cents, as if they were important.   
Lance wanted to ignore her, but she had the floor and the attention of the gathered, raising her voice so that those watching from the sides of the valley could hear what she was saying. 

“Here you are, acting as if you are in control, ordering us about like slaves.” _Bitch._  
And before Lance could stop himself, spat out words. Cold and harsh. “It’s a little bit different being on the other end of the stick, isn’t it?” 

Orvis narrowed her eyes towards the Human, the resemblance to his brother unnerving. She pulled back to, ready to retaliate, but Fellfrir was already talking. “You are a part of this Alliance Orvis as much as all of us. We all must play our part—”  
“But she sends us into danger whilst her, and her favourites play it safe on the ground.” 

Roamer shook her head, her tentacles pulsating with controlled anger, the skin of her otherwise lilac bulb darkening to plum.   
“I will be joining the sky fight, as will my _“friends”_ in the Solnha. I am not at liberty to play favourites in war, I have only the option to play strategy. You are not best suited for stealth, which is why you are also to be above, piloting your own ship to fight the Galra in _Genwar’s atmosphere.”_

If Orvis was smart, she’d read the anger brought from the implied accusation, and hold her tongue. Yet Orvis wasn’t smart, nor would anyone be fooled to think otherwise.   
“Like I would believe that. You try and twist your words to win everyone in your favour, and won’t see the truth, even once the battle is lost and you face death.” 

“She only wants to go the surface so she can get first pick of the slaves.” Eldar flashed Kenmare a warning glare, but the damage was already done. 

“I’ll meet your insult with my blade,” the she-Arroyo hissed, drawing a dagger from her hip, the blade flashing in the sunlight as she pointed it to the Draora.   
Kenmare was quick to raise his armoured arms, moving instinctively closer, taking the fight from Uilt’xen, still under the palm of Eldar. “Then better it be swift, or your death will soon follow.” 

Orvis stepped forward, ready to keep her word, but Lance stood up, a step moving him between the towering aliens, hands raised to halt the fight before it could stop. There was jeering from the onlookers, but Lance ignored them.

“You’re no better than she, Human,” Orvis spat, finding a new opponent to vent her anger upon. “You still remain to argue with Gereen over who stands to claim you.”  
“He is not a prize to be claimed,” Eldar growled, ears pulled back, hackles raised. Orvis brought his anger to the surface quicker than anyone realised; Prime suddenly in her face before Lance, Viridall or the Draora could calm him.   
The shouting of the crowd got louder. 

Outraged at her words, Eldar cursed the Arroyo, her brother and her mate. He’d fight them a thousand times for them to see reason, for them to leave his _Arenphine_ be.   
But greed was strong with the Arroyo and being with them too long had corrupted the soldier in Gereen. He saw his moment, to claim something he still thought his own, and with the Arroyo on his flank, stood his ground. 

“I want what is mine.” 

The others began to argue too, standing up, taking sides and dragging up age old arguments as they got caught up in the foul scent of electric-salt; the smell of anger, fear and hatred filling the air, fuelled by the crowds. Even they shouted threats to one another, factions splitting; crew’s turning on their own when they saw them sat, _“mingling with the enemy.”_

It was all falling apart. 

Roamer stood against her kin, the drunkard having stumbled to his feet, raised whips tangling in the air as he began a threatening display, both their lengths sparking with electricity from friction as they rubbed against one another, ready to shock their opponent.   
Rayon and Kenmare had stepped around Lance, squaring off to Ovule, who snarled and snapped his jaw, threatening the Draora to remain out of it, or he’d kill them. Jo’fir and the bean bags had pulled backwards, behind Roamer’s Thorx delegates.   
Fellfrir was shouting with Irian, the spikes of her secondary spines seeping in poison as she feared for her safety. The Phiord who had accompanied her was trying to calm her alongside Iefyr, who tried to get his father to listen to reason, that Fellfrir wasn’t their enemy, only the Galra, _only the Galra._

Eldar and Viridall stood shoulder to shoulder, hackles raised, claws up to face Gereen and his mate, who displayed the same territorial anger. 

Prime surged forward, raised fists ready to claw at Gereen, who demanded he hand over his prize; Lance. But headstrong and stubborn, the other refused to back down, not when he thought victory within his grasp, not thinking about anything other than the childish _want_ of a toy that wasn’t even a toy. “He is mine by right of _Dasyure,_ from the first day that I fought him, when I first faced him in no-gravity, beyond the _Nairn_ Asteroid Belt.”   
Eldar’s jaw snapped in anger, but he had no words, already knowing the truth that Lance had indeed fought Gereen. _Fought,_ being a loose term, considering Lance’s account revealed the attack nothing more than an ambush, the claim abandoned when Orvis raised her gun and struck, infecting Lance’s open wound with _Sugkie._  
He told Gereen this, but his words weren’t accepted. Only scoffed at.   
“Try as you might, you cannot deny me my claim, _Eldar, Prime of Pantheon.”_

Eldar’s growled ripped through the voices with such ferocity, even the Arroyo siblings flinched, their arguments quickly abandoned, turning to watch the Pawther’s battle with words. 

“He is not a trophy to be claimed, _Gereen._ He is void of contract since the day Galra took fire to our homes and razed our cities to the ground. This so-called tradition that only you hold dear is nothing but fantasy of a forgotten time.”   
“You say this to suit your needs.”  
“I say this because it is the _truth!_ Pantheon is gone and we cannot bring it back. Our only home would have once been _Tuatha,_ but even you would not dare to desecrate the planet with our mark. Instead we must find a new home. We must let go of the path, fight for our tomorrow and hold on to the hope of one day finding a new home amongst the stars.” 

Gereen rolled his eyes. “Among the stars. You sound like the old mothers and their tales—”   
“You have to let go of the past Gereen! There is nothing left. And if you can’t see that, then what are you still fighting for? A new home? A new people to follow you?”  
They were lions at war over everything and nothing. It was a meaningless battle of the future one sought, and the past the other could not forget. 

“I fight for myself,” Gereen spat, breaking free from Orvis’s side, standing nose to nose with Eldar, who did not flinch. “I fight for me and myself, because I know the truth already. I can only trust me, I can only rely on myself and those close to me. You lot want to delude yourself into thinking the future is attainable but there is nothing left!” 

Eldar’s anger could only grow; the idiocy of Gereen’s word the fuel to the fire. “What do you mean nothing left? We stand in front of you!   
“We’re here, offering a path to a future where we _don’t_ have to fight every day, offering a path to a future where you don’t have to be alone, roaming the cosmos for everyone else’s scraps, just to make it to the next day.”  
He shook his head, voice quieting, but only a fraction, keeping the tone of one scolding a cub. “You gain nothing from continuing this challenge and stand to lose everything.”

Viridall nodded his head to Eldar’s words. Fellfrir clicked her mandibles in agreement, as if she hadn’t just been arguing with Irian over nothing.

But still, Gereen refused to bow. “I’ve already lost everything. You barely lost anything.”   
“I lost my _home!_ I lost my _family!_ I lost everyone I had ever loved, and was thrown to the stars just like you. I was lucky; I gathered the crew and they became my new family. Lance came to us, and I was lucky to gain his affection. He is my _Arenphine,_ Gereen. You must know what it is like to lose an _Arenphine,_ so why must you try and take mine from me.”   
A series of emotions played across the green Pawther’s face; _shock-fear-anger-regret-hurt_ before he settled on rage. “How dare you—”

“ENOUGH!” 

The shout stopped the pair from continuing. Not from either, but from the one of which they spoke.   
Lance stood beside them, hands balled into fists, white crescent marks on his palms where nails dug deep, grounding himself.

He had been one of the few unaffected by the surge of emotions, simply left to watch the anger get out of hand as he stood with his constellation mirror – another not affected. She had closed the distance between them, a hand on his wrist, and suddenly the blank shock in his mind had been filled with the words he needed to speak.   
And when he did, his voice echoed loud, booming across the valley. It was her doing; the galaxy shadow that held his wrist. She was friend and she was on his side, standing beside him, helping him understand the words he needed to speak in order to regain control. 

“Enough the pair of you! You fight and bicker like children.   
“All of you,” Lance said, turning his gaze to all of them, even narrowing eyes on Ovule, even as he felt like he might throw up. But with the star-child beside him, Lance held his ground, eyes passing over. 

“This war, this… This is bigger than selfish whims and personal vendettas. The Galra is the enemy, and we are meant to be an Alliance that stands against them, but we cannot even talk in peace without all of you declaring fights and throwing death threats at one another.”   
_Not all,_ Lance thought, knowing that the main culprits were his own lover and his kin.

Eldar’s tail twitched, eyes soft, opening his mouth to speak, but Lance wasn’t going to let him off the hook. He knew Eldar was only defending him, but it wasn’t helping and he needed to see that.   
All calmness gone, Lance’s voice cursed loudly with rage. 

“THIS. IS. WAR!”   
His shout echoed in the silence. Emotion bubbled with it, the same he kept locked within him and refused to release. Not now. Not yet. 

“If we do not play our part, other Aliens lives become forfeit to our mistakes. The longer we bicker, the stronger the Galra become, the harder it will be to defeat them.”

“We have a plan to free _Genwar_ from the Galra’s control, which might I remind you, has Hexhoth Quartz as a natural resource. It’s unstable and volatile, and can be manufactured to strengthen our weapons if we don’t blow up the planet or let the Galra do that themselves. Because you know they will.  
They’ll all yell _“Vrepit Sa”_ and set fire to themselves if it would give the Empire victory. They’re idiots like that, and I thought the Solnha above that sort of nonsense, but you’re just as simple minded, fighting and bickering between yourselves!”

“I thought we were past this. We were all working together, watching each others’ backs, keeping each other safe and moving under the same banner as Solnha. Look how much we’ve accomplished in the last movement alone, all because everyone finally decided to work together.   
The Matriarch of Draora gives her support, we’ve cleared _Karta XI, Ruse Minor, Balter,_ and so many more systems of Galra. We’ve destroyed the bases on _Calarel, Vons,_ we’ve destroyed orbiting stations on _Torous_ and _Jastra!_

“We’ve done so much already, and were here today to discuss _Genwar,_ a key operation that could once and for all free these systems in the Galaxy forever, and all your concerned about it one upping the other and throwing your weight around like it means something!”

As Lance continued, the anger slowly began to fade from his voice, yet with the star-shadow’s grip on his wrist, the volume did not waver. 

Lance turned, his glare hardening, challenging anyone to speak against him. Many remained pressed against the rocks, the drunk Hyaline pulling the fifth casket from his lips to show that he was on the Humans’ side.   
The valley was deafly silent, even when Lance turned to them, watching as they averted their gaze, not wanting to anger the small Human any more than the bad-mouthed Arroyo and his Captain. 

And, with his mind clear, understanding that no amount of words would ever convince Gereen to give up on his pride, he lowered himself to the Pawther’s playing field. 

“No matter what I say, you will always claim that you have been wronged. But your fight is not with Prime, but instead, with me. If you wish to continue to be petty Gereen, then fight me, challenge me to one pf your old Pantheon ceremonies and we’ll play by the old rules. If you win, then the matter is settled and I become yours.”

Eldar opened his mouth to speak, ready to argue such a stupid idea, but Lance was still speaking, the severity of his angry tone enough to silence anyone 

“But if I win, you will finally let this go. You’ll play your part in this war, lend your strength and fight the Galra. But there will be no more _Skulks,_ no more slaves and no more infection from your spies.”

The heaviness of silence hung between them. 

And then, “alright little Human. I shall fight you.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Who says discussing peace treaties was boring?

Who was the one that said peace is a simple and easy concept, and that the world will be a better place once everyone can agree, to lay down their swords and learn to love.   
Because whoever said it, Lance is going to find them and relocate his spine to somewhere outside of his body. 

Okay, so it’s Lance’s fault that he’s in this predicament. He was the one that challenged Gereen, not really lending an extra thought to the consequences when he did so, but they _all_ need the Alliance to be under one banner, for the time being if nothing else, if they’re going to follow Roamer’s in-depth plans and rescue _Genwar_ from the Galra’s clutches.   
And to do that, Lance just has to win against Gereen in a battle to the death. No biggy.

“I love you, but you’re an idiot,” Uilt’xen says from beside him, kicking at the rocks, not sure what to do with herself. She’s meant to be keeping Lance safe, as per Prime’s orders, but when the Human is doing all he can to put himself on the execution block—  
“Yeah yeah, I love you too,” Lance growled, ignoring the look that she gave him, all furrowed brows, no smiles. “Whatever. Just don’t get yourself killed.” 

Lance ignored her, turning away as he continued to ready himself for the upcoming fight, waiting for Brea, who was meant to be bringing him his battle-armour, fetching them from his quarters. He already had his shift-blade upon him, not wanting to be unarmed in the presence of the _sakaala._ He had hoped he hadn’t needed it, yet with the battle about to commence, it was obvious how well that plan had worked out. 

It’s almost funny, if Lance really thinks about it. In order to get Gereen on his side, he has to fight him, beat him into submission. And if the Pawther doesn’t give, he has to kill him, and most likely lose the crew of the Rexx-Marth that are Gereen’s loyal followers. Actually, there might not be many, considering Gereen isn’t really a captain that inspires loyalty and devotion.   
They’re just _Bemis;_ mongrels that want to fight, and will even fight with one another if it suits them too. Not all of them, but enough that Lance would be happy if they were cast from the Solnha.   
But as Roamer had planned, everyone had a vital role. Even Gereen and his rats. 

He was stood in the base of the valley, listening to the thunderous voices echo out around him. He could see familiar faces of his crew gathered nearby, trying not to think too hard as they waved and cheered his name, expecting another fight like the one they’d witnessed this morning, although perhaps with more blood.   
He could hear Dart and Ryul shouting out bets, of course on Lance’s side, but he didn’t really want to hear them asking everyone else who they’d think would be the first to lose a limb. Yikes. 

Lance continued to scour the crowd, nerves growing, smelling the salt-sweat fear of his own stupidity, the bitterness of over-ripe fruit and stale bread. 

“Have you seen him around?” Lance asked, looking to Rayon and Kenmare who were waiting with him, continuing to stay by his side after the declaration of _Camseil._ Even in front of a crowd this large they still didn’t trust Gereen or his jerks not to try anything. 

“Who?”  
“Eldar.” 

Lance still couldn’t see his _Arenphine,_ the Pawther having left swiftly before Lance could explain to him the reasoning behind his actions. Even if Lance hadn’t been thinking, there was reason, and that was reason enough to challenge the other. 

But with Eldar gone, all he could fear was his lover’s anger, knowing such a thing wouldn’t help his nerves, the damn things spiking when his eyes caught a glimpse of Gereen readying himself on the other side of the valley.

“I think that last time I saw him, he was somewhere talking with Roamer,” one of the brothers said, counting heads of Roamer’s gathered crew. It seemed the Hyaline was absent too. “I don’t think she expected things to go the way they did, you know, with you declaring Gereen to a _death match.”_  
“Yeah, I think Eldar’s annoyed at me for that too.”   
Kenmare cocked his head. “You think?”   
Lance ignored the Draora’s tone, eyes unwillingly sweeping the crowd again. Still no sign of Eldar. 

“Did you see where he went? Was it Eldar who sought Roamer, or did she pull him away?” Lance asked, turning to the three that sat there, wearing matching knowing grins. Uilt’xen nudged Rayon with her foot, watching as their Solnha Brother began to pace, having nothing more to do while he waited for Brea to bring him his armour.

Lance’s human habit of rambling got the better of him. 

“Because, okay, I get it. Roamer needs to talk to him, of course she does, that’s kind of the point of us all meeting here so she could talk to everyone, and maybe she wants to tell him that she wants Eldar to lead the stealth team. Or maybe she’s got to rethink things because _oh shit,_ I’m probably going to lose, and this ruins her plans. Because, _ah fuck!”_ Lance cursed, turning away so his brothers and sister couldn’t see the panic rising in his chest.   
He steeled his voice calm and kept rambling, occupying some part of his mind so he could ignore the elephant in the room. Or more so, he could avoid the fear of fighting Gereen. 

“Because I get it, it was kind of obvious that she’d ask Eldar. He’s the best suited to lead the surface raid and she trusts him, _a lot,_ like whenever I see the two of them, they’re really close together and Roamer doesn’t seem to be the sort of girl to be chummy with _everyone._ Because she’s stern, all mother-y stern— but she can’t ask him, _can she?_ Eldar will be too busy piloting the _Godolphin.”_

“But I’d ask Eldar too, if I was in Roamers’ shoes- er, um, _place._ Because, it’s not like you could trust Gereen. And Fellfrir is needed above, considering the _Fellmot_ is the heavy gunner of the entire Solnha Fleet, and Irian doesn’t seem the confident type. His son, maybe, but I haven’t had a chance to meet him properly. Or there’s Viridall, he seems reliable, and Eldar trusts him. Did you see them hugging earlier?” 

Lance threw his hands up in the air, not even _trying_ to be dramatic, but succeeding anyway. Kenmare’s grin widened, the three of them waiting for Lance to turn back to them, which he did, about to pick up where he left off when he noticed their smiles. 

“What?” 

Rayon shrugged, acting disinterested. He cocked his head to one side, eyes on his Solnha sister, speaking with the same teasing tone that was similar in Foci’s words. “I think he’s jealous.”  
Uilt’xen smirked back at him. “Oh but he can’t be, can he? We already know that Prime is already in love with Lance, even if the bone-head just challenged another to a death match, in the middle of a _peace meeting.”_  
“It’s that sort of idiocy that has Eldar head over heels for him in the first place,” Kenmare teased. The Human rolled their eyes and flipped them the bird. “Har, har,” he drawled, plunking himself on a nearby rock, kicking loose pebbles into the stream that ran close to the designated arena. 

“Don’t worry Lance, Eldar won’t leave your side,” Kenmare said, voice soft and comforting.   
Lance met his eyes. “Yeah? Then where is he?”

The Aliens looked to one another, mirth sobering at the realisation that, no Eldar was not with them. They turned to the Human, their faces comforting. “Don’t worry. He’s coming. He was the one to send for Brea, but it looks like he went with her to fetch your armour. Roamer simply followed, hoping for another bright mind to think through this mess.”

Lance thanked them, stopping himself before he dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t want to look weak just before a fight.   
Even if it was one that had demanded, he wasn’t keen to participate, especially when his eyes drifted towards Gereen’s party and the long and heavy sabre that he held in his hands. 

Lance had been strong during the meeting, stood beside Eldar, guarded by the two Draora, who had turned their attention from Lance’s worry to a somewhat serious discussion about whether of not they could best a Hycis in hand to hand combat.   
Uilt’xen was still with him, taking her turn to ramble, but the notion fell flat. Lance was feeling vulnerable in the wide open space, wishing he was either perched up high on Foci’s shoulder, or waiting in the shuttle ship; the fight nothing more than a bad dream and not his foreseeable future. 

But now though, now he has to fight.   
“Like, I mean, I’ve fought against Eldar countless times, but even when he goes easy on me, I’ve never really been able to beat him properly. And yeah, Gereen has two less arms than Eldar, but that doesn’t means he’s still not freaking huge and strong and…. _Oh fuck, I really didn’t think this through.”_  
“Yeah, I could’ve told you that,” Uilt’xen said, helpful as always. Lance gave her a deadpan look. She shrugged in her defence.   
Lance couldn’t hold it against her. Uilt’xen’s affections were shown by how hard she hit you. Although, she still tussled with Kenmare and she had given him a nosebleed at breakfast, so maybe the fact that she _wasn’t_ hitting him was an honour. 

“Don’t talk too loud,” Lance warned his guards, when he saw the nearby Hycis look over in their direction. “If not you’ll have bruises to support your theory that they _will_ best you.”   
The Hycis were territorial, and quick-to-resort-to-violence kind of aliens, and a distant cousin to the Draora. Still, Rayon and Kenmare were happy in questioning their strength. 

And they were staring. 

“Rayon, Kenmare, _shut it!”_ Lance hissed, hoping that no one else would feed on the tension in the air and start a brawl, but he had spoken too late.   
The taller of the two was heading over, crossing the distance from their claimed seats to the space which Lance and his guards had taken while Gereen strutted his stuff and worked the crowd. But the Hycis’s heavy footfalls attracted everyone’s attention. 

The valley fell into a deafly hush.   
Foci looked up from her position, cross-legged on the floor, mouthing something to Ryul who was perched on her shoulder. Brea still wasn’t to be seen. Maybe she was still on the ship, with Eldar and Roamer. 

The Hycis didn’t get far before another two flanked him, as well as Viridall, who had recently been sitting beside Fellfrir with the Phiord, keeping her calm and preventing her from poisoning the Arroyo. Which was a shame, but then the act would do as much to harbour peace as Gereen’s demands for his claim on Lance. 

The Aliens’ footsteps echoed in the quiet of the valley until that was all that could be heard.

Lance stood as the Hycis reached them, strategically moving so that he stood between them and his Solnha Brothers, hoping the motion wasn’t seen as threatening, but protective towards the Draora. He didn’t want them fighting and he certainly didn’t need another to sort out before his match with Gereen. _(Geez, did no one understand the term “peace” or was Lance just setting a really bad example.)_

But the Hycis had not come for the Draora Brothers.

“Little Human.”

Lance watched, frozen in place as the Hycis took a knee, one fist to the floor, heads down, the backs of their necks bared in a vulnerable position, revealing a break in their outer shell of rock armour, to their one weak point. They weren’t just bowing, they were almost… _submitting?_  
Viridall didn’t kneel, but bent low, raising their head with a smile only when the Hycis rose once again. 

The rumbling of the forwards one’s voice was all that broke the silence, loud enough for everyone gathered to hear.   
“Irian saved us when the Galra came to where we had hidden ourselves. But he says that you, little Human are the one to thank. He says it is you, who has turned the Solnha from fighting, to protecting. They all say it is you who chose for the gathering of your people, to take the fight to the Galra, to _Genwar_ and free our brethren.” He bowed his head once more, not quite a complete bow as earlier had been, but enough that Lance felt his cheeks flush. He just stared, not sure if he should say something, or just say _‘thanks.’_

“Ah, look at this. The rock-heads have found a new Goddess to bow to. What happened? Did the Galra already blow up _Genwar?”_  
Lance’s posture turned defensive and alert as Gereen moved to join them, already ready in his armour; his green body adorned in golden armour, all shiny and pretty, showing off a wealth he didn’t possess. From the adjustments to the breast plate and the pauldron meant it wasn’t actually his. Stolen, or found, it meant nothing.   
Just like his sabre and unsociable attitude, it was all for show. Although Lance didn’t doubt the metal wouldn’t be able to deflect his light-sword, and possible dual blades. Yet it was a sure downfall against Lance’s gar, and to the belief he clung to, hope once again surging through him, lighting his scent, warmth tingling in his finger tips even as he stood, not quite prepared for battle. 

Gereen must’ve noticed the change in the Human, his eyes cast over to him, tongue darting out between teeth, tasting the warm, sugary scent of his soon-to-be prey.   
The motion set Rayon’s teeth on edge. Kenmare scanned the group for Ovule’s location, finding him and focusing. They took the role as Lance’s bodyguards, and although Lance had told his Solnha brothers it wasn’t needed – something they fervently disagreed with – he felt all the better for it.   
Still he was unable to push the slight chill that filled his chest as everything came flooding back. He was to fight this warrior after all. 

Orvis clung to her mates arm, much her favourite spot when gloating and leering. The she-Arroyo smirked to the Human, but Lance had already steeled himself enough not to react to her presence, her words, or any tricks that she kept up her sleeves.   
He was prepared for this for this. He would fool them all and fool himself into believing that those that wanted to hurt him were nothing to him. Nothing to fear and nothing to care for.   
It was satisfying to see the confusion on Orvis’s face when Lance’s face remained placid. Even Ovule had no witty remark when the boy looked his way and past, as if he was nothing more than a wisp of smoke fashioned into a figure. 

The Hycis moved first. They stood, attempting to bar Lance from the Pawther’s sight, Viridall quick to centre himself between the three of them, tail flicking, hackles raised. 

The motion made Gereen smile. He didn’t stop his approach. “More bodyguards? Don’t tell me you’re choosing to back out of our fight?” He tutted, another sweep of his eyes showing the Lance was not dressed for battle.   
Or maybe he was. How was Gereen to know? He’d never fought against, or even beside him. 

“I’m not going back on my word Gereen. I’m glad to fight against you,” he Lance said, letting his cocky bravado hide his growing fear. “I was hoping for a chance to kick you to the dirt.”

Gereen’s face darkened. “It will be you’ll who will fall, Little Human. If you stop hiding behind the rocks, maybe we’ll have ourselves a fight.” His smile returned, although not to his eyes; pools of obsidian as dark and as empty as Anadón’s heart.   
“Come and fight me like we agreed. You need not to don armour; not you, a Human who holds immeasurable strength.” He stood, turning to the crowds that watched with baited breath, wondering if the battle was to commence now. Tho’ looked ready to charge in, to halt such things before Lance was equipped with armour, but with his Solnha Sisters and Brothers, the Daratrine needn’t interfere. Besides, it wasn’t just the _Godolphin_ crew that stood on his side. 

“We’ve all heard the stories, have we not? That the Human was one to tame a Voltron beast, who took the fight to Zarkon’s ship and almost defeated him. I heard; had it not been for the witch, they would’ve succeeded.   
“But then, I have also heard of the Human’s magic. A power he does not share, but keeps to himself, even when he tells us to charge the front gate and risk our lives.”

“We all agreed that was the plan for _Genwar._ You’re crossing hairs, trying to unsettle that which has already been settled,” Viridall growled, stepping up before Lance could, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Hycis.   
“The human deserves respect and protection of the Hycis for his action,” the tallest said. “Not just for me and my kin, but for all the Galra crush. You stand on the line between, not quite Galra, but one who will crush another underfoot to stop yourself drowning.   
“You do not deserve our respect, nor do we wish to let you fight the Human. By this we stand.” 

“And I stand by my word,” Lance said, speaking up before anyone could argue further. “I challenged you to fight Gereen and I will. So enough with petty words. 

“Ready yourself.”


	25. A Want To Win

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who says peace treaties are boring? Who says peace is simple, because Lance is going to find them and relocate his spine. Okay, so it’s Lance’s fault that he’s in this mess, and he wasn’t really thinking, but they all need the Alliance if they’re going to rescue Genwar from the Galra’s clutches. And to do that, he just has to win a battle to the death. No biggy.

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

“Lance.” 

The call of his name was the only warning the boy was given before Eldar appeared beside him, frustrated and fearful, yellow eyes pale in the light of his _Arenphine’s_ dawning predicament, his scent sour and bitter under the surface of his comfort, given as he placed one hand on the small of the Humans’ back, another on his cheek to scent him. Lance leaned into the touch, if only to return whatever comfort he could, for Eldar’s sake.   
Eldar could smell Lance’s own discomfort for the upcoming fight, but unable to go against his lover’s words, he was helpless to do nothing but sit back and accept what the boy had chosen for himself. Yet, that didn’t mean he couldn’t support him, and offer calm before the first blade drew blood. Lance certainly needed it as the cheers and shouts sounded out, as Gereen moved to the flat earth away from the canopy, grumbling under his breath about his waning patience, his actions urging others around to hurry. It seemed the spectacle was soon to begin. 

Foci had been moving the rocks to make a sort of sparring ring, but it looked like she was trying really hard not to throw them at those that were threatening her family.   
Gereen was the perfect target; strutting about in his armour, armed with his sabre that had been upon his hip even before the issue of challenge. But then, that had been more for the sake of intimidation towards the other Solnha leaders that for the act of self-preservation. 

“You fool,” Eldar whispered as he pulled Lance further away from the centre ring, pulling him so that he blocked sight of his kinsmen. He leant in, his cheek rubbing against Lance’s again, silently cursing the sun, the stars, the gods and whoever wrote everyone’s stories as to why Lance was to do battle with a strong warrior such as Gereen. And a battle to the death no less. 

His eyes skimmed over his _Arenphine’s_ body, looking to the marks drawn from this morning’s battle; bruises and red marks where hits had met their mark on unprotected skin. None hurt however, they were just the drawings left, the pain washed away by Tho’xemae’s hand and a vial of _Eyre._  
Lance noticed the focus of his lover’s gaze, assuring that he felt no pain, no more than a slight sting at the moment of impact and nothing more. But like Gereen, words were wasted upon Eldar, especially when it came to certain things. Lance, of course, was one of them.   
He knew why. He knew more worry was to follow and Eldar, a slave to the sidelines, could do nothing but fret and pray that Gereen is the one to fall. 

Uilt’xen and the Draora brothers had left them by now; after a salute to Prime and another brief glimpse of concern for their favourite Human, before returning to the canopy where they joined the others that remained on Lance’s side. They stood as an honorary wall between him and his opponent, until time came for the fight. It was appreciated, and helped calm Lance enough that Eldar noticed the change in his scent. Fear was still his companion, but it wasn’t taking a front row seat.

“Here, I’ve brought you your armour,” Eldar said, pulling forth what Brea had been sent for. She had re-joined Ryul and the others now, leaving Eldar to help Lance prepare.   
He took over the job of tying the hand wraps, before he handed Lance Kenmare’s knuckle busters. It was extra protection, as well as an extra weapon. And it wasn’t like _Camseil,_ the challenge of battle, deemed the opponents only one weapon. 

The rules were pretty simple actually:  
 _Only the challengers were to fight. Any influence towards either challenger from beyond the sparring ring qualifies for immediate execution for he who disrespects the fight and the challenger whom he supports._

_The challenge is only complete when one opponent admits defeat, or dies. No matter the outcome, the death of one fighter is not to be punished afterwards, as not to disrespect the tradition, or he who lost his life._

_Upon the event of victory by surrender, the victory claims a mark upon the other, to forever burden them with defeat, never to rise above he who won._

So… _Yeah._  
If Lance dies, Eldar can’t raise a hand against Gereen in revenge. And same for Orvis and Ovule, although, not hailing from Pantheon, Lance doubted anyone other than the three Pawther would respect the rules set out by the ancient tradition.   
At least there was nothing in the rule book that said anything about weapons, armour or the like. It was pretty much a _“fight however you want, but be prepared to live with the consequences”_ kind of deal.   
Or… you know, _not,_ if Lance was to die…

“What are you doing Lance?”  
The boy looked up, meeting Eldar’s sunset-warm eyes. It hurt to see the worry there, like singular clouds floating in an otherwise clear sky, but there was nothing Lance could do to revoke the challenge he had issued. If he did, then the fighting would continue and he’d still be looking over his shoulder, unable to fully trust the pirates he’s meant to be fighting beside. 

Panic bubbled up inside Eldar, but it came out cold and harsh, unforgiving like waves that crashed upon the beach on a winter’s day.   
“Why?” He asked, leaning in, grip tightening enough that it was painful. Lance felt a noise of pain pull from his lips, but Eldar was too focused on a future that may not even pass to notice the hurt he gave to his lover. 

“Why? Why did you challenge Gereen to a fight? He is a soldier, one that had fought long and hard, even before the Galra came to us and took away our home.   
“I knew him before Pantheon’s destruction. He may not have been Prime, nor will he ever be, but he was strong and he fought like one. He was a part of my guard when I took my father’s place. He may have been young, but even now, he holds no mark of _Dasyure,_ no mark to burden him, meaning he has lost no battles.”

And Lance, pressed tight to the bosom of his lover, felt more than just Eldar’s anger. He felt his _fear._

“You don’t think I can win?”

The words caught Eldar off guard. He pulled back, his own, stormy grey eyes meeting Lance’s – rain soaked earth, the russet of a wild pelt, obscured by dirt from the storm that caught it before it found shelter – seeing the hope trickle from inside him. He had needed Eldar’s comfort, to ground him, to hold him in the moment. He needed Eldar to fight his demons so Lance could focus on fighting Gereen. 

“No, that’s not…. it’s not what I—”

Eldar dropped his head with a sigh, a wet cheek against Lance’s. “You are stronger than him. Even stronger than me when you let yourself go. I fear you will have to, in order to win. But I fear losing you most of all.” 

He hugged him again, this time his arms strong, but his hold free of pain. Lance settled into his arms, inhaling deeply. “I spoke in anger. It was stupid of me and I already wish I hadn’t fallen into his trap,” he agreed. “But I saw no other way to show him that violence, mistrust and fighting only for oneself was no longer the way.

“I don’t plan to kill him,” he added, his voice soft. “I won’t become a murderer for his sake, but if it’s either me or him to survive, then of course I will fight with everything I have.   
“I won’t lose myself, because I have you to return to,” he said, finishing with a kiss. Rushed, passionate and needy, leaving too much left unsaid when Lance pulled away, far too soon, turning to step into the gladiator’s ring.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

“Is that your choice of weapon?” Gereen asked, his words more of a shout, as he toed the line of the twenty feet distance between himself and Lance; his hackles raised, his muscles rippling under the movement of his fur as he tried to intimidate his Human opponent.   
Lance wasn’t buying it. With Eldar once more by his side, his body protected in his armour and mask, Lance felt just as invincible as when he had when Eldar had first given him his light-sword. He held it now; only the handle configuration visible, in an effort to hide its true shapes. Lance wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t about to show his opponent the other configurations before battle could commence.  
Although, now Gereen brought attention to it, Lance got an idea. 

“What? Is it too much?” he asked, turning it over, throwing Gereen’s ploy for intimidation back in his face. His disinterest certainly got under the Pawther’s skin, but the boy could do better. So he went for it.   
“If you’re scared Gereen, I can always go and find something smaller.” Seeing the other’s hard-contained outrage, Lance wished he could beat his opponent with his weapon as is, but that dream was as far-fetched as the reality of winning and walking away from this fight without injury. 

Gereen’s armour shone in the midday sun; the tight weave a hearty defence, yet enabling complete movement. It was crafted from _Dzo,_ a metal found at the core of Griezian Slur, mined by the Trigamon who had used its insulating abilities to create suits that made them immune to the electric currents of their machines. A simple health and safety feature that had been adopted by many when the small creature’s genius was chanced upon by some very lucky Pirates.   
Lance wasn’t feeling lucky. He knew that the _Dzo Suit_ wouldn’t allow the currents from his Gar to have any affect on Gereen. So much for an easy incapacitating move. 

The crowd resonated with Lance’s confidence with different levels of support and jibes for Gereen’s future. Dart and Ryul were still shouting for bets, but now someone had thrown in the idea of how the loser would die. Would it be death by incineration, loss of blood, or would they watch their still-beating heart be pulled from their chest?  
 _Thanks Bumi. That’s a real nice image to stick in my head, right before I start a fight._

They were all waiting for the first strike, the first blow to draw blood and determine the winner before the final swing of the blade. There were many calling for Gereen’s blood, not as many for Lance’s. Many feared the Human’s reach of victory, what with his puny cylinder he held. It was a kitten compared to Gereen’s lusting beast, baring its sharp fang, wanting for blood.   
Orvis and Ovule, perhaps more restrained that his sister, sat back and leered, calling for death and blood, although neither seemed pretty specific on who they wanted to step away victorious. The idea of the Arroyo standing with him left a chill on Lance’s spine; something he didn’t want to think too strongly about. 

Lance needn’t focus too hard though, as the cheers and cries for the smaller of the two combatants drowned out any support for Gereen. It seemed gladiatorial warfare was a fair pastime in outer space. Shiro could attest to that.  
The memory of the paladins was a shock to the system. Lance’s entire body went cold and dreadful thoughts filled his suddenly very empty mind. 

_If he dies, he’ll never see them again._

_Does he even want to see them again?_

_Would they ever learn what happened to him?_

_Would they care?_

_Would they tell his family—_

“Ready little Human?” Gereen held his sabre higher, his voice calling Lance back into the moment. The wetness upon his eyes bit and stung in _Uris’s_ wind; Lance blinking them away quickly to hide any sense of weakness. He took a step forward, fearing raising his voice in answer to his enemy would show the cracks in his mask. Eldar could certainly sense the sudden shift in his lover, if the look upon his face was anything to go by. 

Electric-salt sadness, toxic waste fears and noxious fumes of volcanic anger affected the keener noses of the closer gathered crowd. Viridall and Eldar exchanged nervous glances, their eyes narrowing in fear and uncertainty whilst Gereen’s widened. He tasted Lance’s fear, and tasted his certain victory.   
The Arroyo siblings snarled at the scent of nearby prey. They were able to keep their minds from bending to instinct’s will by the interruption of heavy footfalls. Gereen’s to be exact, too eager to start the hunt, had accepted Lance’s approach for action rather than wait for the sound of another to announce the beginning of the match. 

Held out like a metal wing, posed like a bird attempting flight, Gereen held his sabre; his own trophy from destroying a Galra base on the Planet _Zaltarish._ It hummed with energy, the light powerful enough to fight the sunshine, a purple hue of Galran Energy enveloping the reach of his arm.   
Lance felt himself recoil, inwardly flinching, watching the same light he had associated with Shiro. The thought of fighting his Hero brought him uneasiness, the idea of this spar turning more and more sour by the second.  
There was homesickness there too, but Lance couldn’t spread his attention right now, no matter how much his memories called to him from the recesses of his mind. 

Lance rolled, watching the swing of the sabre slow, his mind catching with confusion when his own eyes, pulled from the movement of Gereen’s feet moved to his eyes, to see his goal. Surprised, when he saw Gereen’s smirk directed, not to Lance, but to Eldar who stood behind him, watching with baited breath as his Arenphine stood in the way of danger. 

_“This is more than just a show of strength for him,”_ Pidge’s voice resounded in his mind. _“He’s trying to win favour for his own ranks and drag yours and Eldar’s name through the dirt in the same battle.”_ Hunk joined in. _“He’s sure he’ll win because he focuses on size and strength. He’s overconfident.”_  
 _“I sure wouldn’t mind if he shared,”_ Lance sassed back. It had made him feel a little better that he could still be sarcastic in the face of imminent death, what with all the odds stacked against him. 

_“Don’t let him take lead of the spar,”_ Shiro’s voice said, pulling Lance back from Gereen’s strike, body already moving from instinct, rather than thoughtful movement. _“Tease him first. Get under his skin and rile him up before you draw your blade. We know what you’re capable but he does not.”_  
But one swing was not Gereen’s first move, and he darted in again. Back, back and back, he darted, trying to focus on the enemy before him and the sound of Keith’s voice: _“He won’t kill you. Not after how much he has said he wants you. You won’t fall here. You’ll win and go on, and you’ll come back to us. That I swear.”_

The promise caused Lance to stumble.   
Right into the path of Gereen’s blade. 

“LANCE!”

The drum of thunder ripped through the crowd; Aliens stamping their feet and calling out as the first drop of blood was drawn, falling to the dusty grey ground of _Uris’s_ valley floor. 

Cries filled the air as Lance’s arms screamed under the weight of Gereen’s sabre, inches from his head. He barred its movement with the flat of one of his duel blades. The other lay claim to Gereen’s thigh, having found a shift in the thick weave. The wound was shallow, not like the one that had caught Lance across the underside of his right forearm, where a slow steady stream of red trickled. Kenmare’s knuckle buster had protected his hand and wrist from the sabre’s sharp fang.   
The scent of metal permeated the air, fuelling Gereen’s sinister smile. He flexed his arms, the blade dropping closer to Lance’s forehead. Noise surrounded him, but Lance couldn’t split his focus. He poured forced into his arms, then using Gereen’s second attempt at striking him, let himself be thrown back, out of reach of the Galran sabre. 

The curving blade extended three and a half feet from the hilt. An impressive weapon, and fooling Lance in the belief that it was heavy. He had thought that Gereen would need two hands to wield it. He had hoped the Pawther’s choice would slow him down.  
But shown by the frontal charge, the changes in direction from direct to right-side attack, Lance knew he’d made a mistake. He’d been fooled by his own assumptions, surprised by his opponent’s swiftness that came at him again.   
Lance jumped back. Gereen followed, the sabre held in one hand and suddenly, the boy was on the defensive. 

Lance was not too proud to deny that Gereen had skill with the weapon of his choice, despite its status of newly acquired, leaving him little time to have practised with its weight and balance.   
True to Eldar’s claims, Gereen was am excellent fighter. Lance didn’t doubt his position in the _Pantheon Guard_ for a second, instead letting himself curse to the fool he had been for thinking Gereen wouldn’t have been a hard target as Eldar with less arms.   
There was a reason Gereen was yet to fall to the enemy, and he was about to show it. 

The Galran craft was to be credited for half the skill in the slice and dice movements that saw Lance on a continual retreat, the design having optimised the heft of the blade with weight and appropriate material, meaning the Pawther opponent was not restricted with both use of his hands as he advanced. He had enough battleground experience to apply knowledge to movement, performing perfect twists and turns to keep Lance on his feet, guessing from what angle he might try and strike from next.

Left, right, left, parry.

Lance’s left arm swung up with one blade to deflect the glancing blow, the second pushed in and up to support. But he left himself open to Gereen’s curled fist, meeting it square between the eyes. The crunching of bone was sickening, the spray of blood metal in his mouth. His eyes watered and everything unlatched from his focus for a moment.   
Then came the pained cry of Eldar, and Lance couldn’t let his mind wander too far. He let his body fall back, out the way of the second strike, his body twisting just before he hit the ground, turning it into a roll. A blur of white in his vision and suddenly his feet was wet. He was by the river. He had found his bearings. 

Gereen allowed Lance to regain focus. He held his advance, tail swishing back and forth, eyes a dark and unforgiving black as the scent of the copious amounts of fresh blood enveloped his being. His mind succumbing fought sentience in favour of ancestral instinct.   
The hunt had been given. Gereen simply had to take it. 

But Lance was not a mere sacrifice to the raging beast. He himself had experience in combat, against a diverse number of opponents, even before he joined the Solnha ranks.   
As a Paladin he had trained against the Altean Gladiator Androids, observed their movements and copied. He saw their weaknesses and closed the gaps in his own defences, further still when he sparred against his Solnha family. They themselves were skilled, as they were unpredictable. Fighting with them, Lance could only get stronger. He wasn’t that same boy in the cargo ship corridor, frightened, alone.   
He wasn’t the same boy, and he was going to prove it. 

Lance waited for Gereen’s next stab, a strategy forming in his mind. He lowered his blades, bowing his head yet not breaking eye contact with the Pawther’s feet. He let the top of his body slump and took heavy breaths, mimicking tiredness.   
A hush drew in over the crowd, much like summer rain, washing away the warmth and comfort of a perfect day. Like electricity in the air, Lance could feel Eldar’s fear upon his skin. Biting-cold snow and steel striking rock. It urged the monster closer.   
Gereen saw his chance, saw victory, and charged. 

Lance waited, weighing his blades in light, yet firm grasps. He watched the footfalls, ignored the desperate yells of his supporters. Despite Gereen’s skill, he had a certain predictability about him when it came to his attacks. As Lance assumed, he was a _“hack-and-slash”_ fighter, determining the brute strength would win him the battle. And of course, an exhausted opponent would be easy to cut down.   
If he stayed still. 

Just as the sabre sliced through the air to where Lance’s heart stood, his lower half twisted, one knee bending to take him to the side and down, dropping away from the stabbing blade, now cleaving through thin air and nothing more.   
The Human followed through with a blade to the gut, but Gereen’s armour was thick and the weave forced the weapon to glance slightly, leaving only a shallow cut from abdomen to hip. Unperturbed, Lance moved again; a swipe of his legs too weak to swipe Gereen’s feet from under him. Instead they connected, then hooked around one ankle, pulling Lance in close to bury his second blade deep into his enemy’s thigh. 

Anger and pain took the Pawther’s mind. Right slash, left slash, he swung in near-panic, body moving on adrenaline alone to detach the biting jaws that clamped his leg. Lance rolled away, only one blade in hand. The other was lodged into Gereen’s bone, causing the desperate swings of his sabre, searching for Lance through the pain. 

The Human was up, on two feet, far from the reach of the blade. His own smaller held in his hand, he held it before him, finding the sigil of the triskelion. He hoped the weapon’s transformative abilities would remain, even as it was to stay in halves.   
Sure enough, at the press of skin on metal, the threads of metal that formed the blade balanced themselves until Lance held a small staff, no longer than four feet. It was lighter, enabling Lance to hold one end cleanly with both hands, extending his reach just that little bit more. The tip crackled in frightening blue light, sparking bright despite the sunshine around them. It clashed with the glow of purple as Gereen, still with his wits about him, parried the jab aimed to connect blade and Gar.   
It was Lance’s strategy; to open up a pathway from weave to skin and allow the effects of the Gar’s energy to electrocute Gereen. If not to incapacitate him, then injure, or tire him, allowing Lance to move in on the attack. 

Yet Gereen’s experience showed him Lance’s plan from the moment the blue light sparked. He bunted the Gar, and with his free hand, pulled the remaining dual blade from its housing of flesh and blood. It turned on Lance as it flew through the air. The boy lifted his Gar to defend himself, tensing to catch the hefty blade. But when metal met metal, the gar simply absorbed the weapon, shifting in Lance’s grip until it was once more the seven-foot Gar, decorated with blue pathways of energy that saw surges of electricity run up and down the lengths. 

Strength wells up inside him; the ocean at his back as he surges forward. He let instincts move his body; his blood turning to saltwater, liquid and fluid as he charges his enemy head on, the gar held in two hands beside him, a twist of the hips to start the momentum and the pull of his arms to bring the weapon sweeping around. Gereen vaults the motion, voice gruff in curses from the pull of tendons in his leg. He isn’t badly wounded, but there is pain from movement and its enough to scrunch his face into a grimace and entice the crowds in crowing for the Human’s victory. 

Gereen refused to fall. 

Lance jumps back, ducks tight to the ground underneath the swing of the blade. It is heavy in Gereen’s hands now; he wields it with two hands. When Gereen swung again, Lance jumped out of reach, then back in, striking the returning attack, the flat of the sabre blocked by his gar. But the wound in the Pawther’s thigh did little to drain his strength and Lance, unprepared, was not ready for the second strike; desperate, unpredicted. 

The blade caught Lance’s left shoulder.

“It seems you are not as meek as you first appear, little Human,” Gereen said, licking his lips to rid the blood from skin caught by fangs. He was wasting time and energy on baiting his opponent, trying to keep up the pretence of assured victor.   
No one was assured anymore. Many of the Alien’s supporters had turned on their Captain, the crowds cheering unanimously as Lance stood once more, no mind to the pain in his arm nor those that stood behind him. His only focus was Gereen and procuring victory before death. In the brief moment of respite, Lance’s arsenal of jeers surfaced, aiming for the weak points in Gereen’s confidence.   
“And it seems that you are not as strong as you claim. I admit, I had feared defeat from the first blow, yet here I stand with barely a fatal wound upon me, and it is you that is beginning to tire.” 

If he had the mind to, Lance would scold himself for the useless taunting that did nothing more than anger the Pawther, providing fuel to the fire of rage that consumed the air, stealing the oxygen until Lance was choking on the fumes of bloodlust. Taunts and jibs were another weapon to throw the balance of the minds, but Lance didn’t know Gereen enough to know where to strike where it hurts. 

_{Like you hurt Keith?}_

Lance’s strike jars, allowing Gereen ample time to dodge, but quick thinking brought the end of the gar around fast, catching Gereen once again upon his thigh, where _Dzo-weave_ split and weakness stood proud in thick red blood. The gar met flesh, the electricity pulsing and the Pawther bellowed a cry of pain. Lance screamed too, unable to hold back noise as the sabre met his flesh. Blood welled from his chest; the warmth of his life-force trickling from the cut buried in his chest. His ribs, and Gereen’s lack of strength saved his life, but the line of metal from Lance’s victim to his own chest created a pathway for the Gar’s energy to surge back upon its wielder.   
A bright blue spark flashed in the valley as the two opponents were flung from one another. 

The valley is alive with noise as onlookers watch one rise to his feet. It is Gereen; his armour cracked in places and missing in others. Lance, who was thrown towards the tumbled rocks at the base of one valley incline, is yet to resurface. They can neither see, nor hear him. 

Eldar breaks away from those gathered under the canopy, but before he can leave its shade, Ovule bars his path, back to the arena. “You cannot go to him,” he hissed, his tongue darting between sharp teeth. He’s smiling, enjoying the spectacle without a care to the victor. Eldar has been on the sidelines with his heart in his throat for too long, and now that Lance has fallen, all he can think is to be there by his side, ritual be damned.   
Orvis stands beside her brother, crossing her arm. Her look is one of a challenge, and Eldar would have no greater pleasure than cutting their throats; these who bar him from his _Arenphine._ But he cannot.

“If you interfere, both of you will be put to the blade,” Viridall says, voice firm as he joins his Prime. A firm hand on the shoulder stops Eldar’s thoughts of rushing his obstacles. But it is Gereen who freezes him in place with a bellow of laughter, wiping away the smear of blood oozing down his chin. It stains his fur, yet the colour of fire is not that which flows through his veins. It’s Lance’s blood. 

“Come little Human, we are not done yet.” 

And there is Lance, bruised, bleeding, but alive. His mask is gone, the hand wraps too. He only holds one of Kenmare’s knuckle busters – the other one lost when he was thrown to the rocks. His first wound has stopped bleeding, but the sabre to his chest appears deep, if the amount of blood was anything to go by. But what catches Eldar’s eyes immediately is the tears in the boy’s shoulder pads, his left pauldron missing and the undergarments of fine-weave armour torn.   
Above the old scar of Ovule’s teeth marks lays another. Gereen had sunk his teeth deep, tearing armour, flesh and muscle when they were forced apart. The damage is extensive; its effects crippling.   
Lance cannot raise his left arm.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Lance is shaken.  
Not from Gereen’s inflicted wounds, nor the force of impact; although that greatly winded him, and possibly knocked him unconscious for a moment or two.

No, what shakes him the most is that he heard Anadón’s voice. Not in his mind, but next to him, as if Anadón was once again with him, just another face in the crowd, watching him fight. It is a frightening thought to think that Lance is falling prey to his monsters again, after being free from their manacles for so long.   
But then, was he ever truly free? Was Anadón faking death to lure Lance into false security, so that when he snatches it all from him there will be no energy to climb back up. 

The crowd cheer and scream, the worries for their Champion gone as quick as they had come, now calling for the two fighters to finish the battle. Only one could win. They could all sense that they were drawing to a close. 

Lance ignored his family, ignored the prickling of Eldar’s eyes upon him, ignored the confidence of Gereen who wasn’t as affected by the gar as Lance hoped. Hoped? Yes, he wanted him on his knees, writhing on the floor, begging for the pain to stop, for Lance to put him out of his misery. 

_{Kill him.}_

_No!_   
_Lance said he wouldn’t kill him, he wouldn’t lose himself just to win!_

Lance yanked his mind from the shadow’s grasp. He searched for the light inside him, the hope that would stand beside him and guide him to victory. He felt the touch of Eldar against his cheek, heard the soft peeling laughter of Roamer. Memories of his Solnha Family and the time spent with them. Memories of the Paladins, and those still on Earth. His families, who he was fighting to protect.   
He lent on them for strength and somehow found the fight still in him to lift his right arm and level the gar with Gereen. The smile fell from his face and he readied himself for the final confrontation. 

The valley filled with the echoing of footfalls, the cries of two warriors charging in while they still had the energy to hold their weapons. Sweat and blood made Lance’s grip weak, but he held his weapon straight and true, halting a few steps before impact, letting Gereen close the distance with his burst of speed. Sabre held out ready to push the gar aside and follow through with a kick, Gereen jumped into the air, to add his weight to the momentum of falling.

But in the motion of jumping, he had trapped himself in mid-air, giving himself no leverage to dodge. Watching his trajectory, Lance knew where to hold out his gar, the tip aimed for Gereen’s abdomen where the earlier attack had weakened the weave. His thigh would’ve been a better target, but that was blocked by the sabre. Regardless, Gereen fell upon Lance’s gar and the tip of blue energy.   
But weak from blood-loss and the extensive fight, Lance couldn’t keep his grip and the pair collapsed to the floor, quick to separate before the next strike. They stood apart, panting. 

Lance’s brow was moist with sweat, his hair sticking close to his face, his long fringe threatening to obscure his vision if it got in his eyes. 

The thought had taken his focus, in the time it took for Gereen to chose his next move and act upon it.   
Lance woke himself up quick enough to dodge, his only escape route to slide between the Alien’s his legs to catch him unawares. But, it was a fatal mistake when Gereen’s tail whipped up, then back down. Lance had no choice but to use both arms to protect himself, his shoulder screaming in pain from movement and the pressure of the limb on the gar he held above his face. It lifted, ready to strike again, but before it could, Lance pulled the gar into it’s handle configuration and rolled. The ground was uneven and he didn’t need to work too hard to put distance between the pair. 

Up, up, he had to get _up._   
Lance scrambled to stand. But Gereen wouldn’t let him up easy. His rage announced his approach in a roar; “This is my victory, wretch. I will win today.”   
“Then take it. And save me from your drawl,” Lance replied, sabre striking the ground where he lay moments before. The taunts finally found the chink in Gereen’s armour, worming under his skin until the guttural roar was the only sound to be heard in the valley.   
It was warning enough to Lance who felt his focus pool in his mind, numb to the pain and everything around him. Whether it was adrenaline or a sudden rush of energy he didn’t know he had, Lance had the speed and manoeuvrability to dodge every slash of the beast’s claws.   
With his gar held out for balance, he back-stepped away from unbridled fury, hearing the roar of an unleashed monster. Death was now his future, if he did not win. 

Gereen had abandoned his sabre and struck out with his claws, again and again yet could not find purchase in Lance. He was nimble, agile and intensely focused. It was as if he could see the attacks before they came, his body moving before Gereen’s, taking him safely out the way.   
And, as if his body knew before his mind, Lance felt the pads of his fingers slid against the smooth argumentum metal. They found the sigil and hid it under their press before Lance could see it, yet he felt it with the warmth of blue light that shone as the gar was pulled back into its holding with speed greater than Lance had experienced in all his time fighting. He didn’t fight it though, relinquishing to whatever instinct pulled sword from sheath, filling his body with strength. 

“Surrender or die,” Gereen screamed, a wild look in his eye as he launched forward, claws outstretched. Desperation had all but driven him mad, blinding him to the dangers before him. 

Lance, levelling his light-sword, charged. 

His sword hummed as it carved through the heat of the midday air, the crackle of energy deafening all as raw power found its voice through Lance. 

The roar that ripped from his lungs wasn’t human. Body twisting in rage, he took advantage of his flexibility and balance, darting in to meet Gereen’s unprotected abdomen with his weapon.   
Gereen’s scream was louder; a signal to the end of battle. 

He fell to the dusty valley floor, clutching his side where Lance had aimed his sword not to pierce, but to glance, like before. The light-sword had cauterised the wound, but the pain of burning flesh was what chained Gereen to agony, his cries stemmed as he clamped his jaw shut, the warrior inside him preparing to stand and fight. He had been trained to serve and to protect, to lay down his life if duty asked for it.   
Defeat wasn’t something he accepted easily. 

“Submit,” Lance hissed, already stood over his opponent, holding his sabre to the Alien’s bare neck. Gereen flashed his teeth. Lance responded by pushing the light closer to him, enough that fur singed and the Pawther was forced to pull his head back, breaking eye contact with the Human that held him captive. 

“Submit or die,” Lance cursed, a tempest in his eyes as strength remained, waiting for the choice to grant him retreat or swift blow from his blade.   
The demand saw Gereen falter. His eyes remained up, staring at the silent onlookers, yet the Human saw nothing but he who remained underneath him. Gereen was at his mercy, if he chose to surrender. 

_“I will never surrender to you.”_

The words carried into the air, whipped up in the torrent of spectators muttering in rushed voices, wondering what was to happen. Would the Human really kill the Pawther? Has Lance really won? They hoped so of course, but doubt was their companion when comparing the smaller creature to the towering size of a warrior guard.   
And now, with the stubbornness of Gereen, they were witness to his execution. By Lance’s hand. 

Lance drew back, anger upon his features. He didn’t think Gereen stupid, or someone who didn’t value their life over their pride. The attitude was similar to Rayon’s, yet Gereen was putting his life on the line. This wasn’t a spar against a friend that knew when to stop. He was fighting Lance; a boy that he had hunted since their first meeting, someone he poisoned, someone who he twisted through the use of others, separating him, trying to isolate him.   
Lance is someone who has every reason to exact revenge and none to not want to do so. 

_“Death, death, death,”_ came the chant from the crowd, demanding an end to the age-old Pantheon ritual, none there to stand for Gereen after his loss. And still, the expression on his face did not change. He just stared up at Lance, who held light-sword poised over the old guard’s neck, ready to pierce done, severing the tether to life.   
“Surrender and I’ll let you live,” Lance said again, voice as cold as steel. Gereen just smiled. “What is it, little Human? Do you not want to kill me?” 

“NO!”

Lance’s shout was a surprise. So was the act of withdrawing his sword and casting it aside. He lent down, taking Gereen by the collar as he laid a fist into his jaw, again and again. “I don’t want to kill you! I don’t want to kill anyone!” Lance hit him again, repeating the blows, despite their lack of energy that did little but turn the Pawther’s head to the side.   
I want peace for my family, for all families out there. I want an end to the war so I can create a home with Eldar and create a family for the two of us. Surely you want peace too?”

Gereen spat blood from his mouth. “Peace is impossible.”  
“Then why were you a guard?”   
The question stopped the Pawther short, eyes widening as Lance’s words pulled memory from the tension in the air. “You swore loyalty to Pantheon, to the old gods to protect the land, the royal family and the kingdoms. You fought to protect others and upheld the laws to keep peace in a city that had never before seen war.   
Peace once existed upon Pantheon yet you say it impossible? You achieved it before, so why can’t you believe you can achieve it again? Why throw your life away for the sake of an idea that isn’t true!” 

Everyone can hear Lance’s words. They resonate loud and clear throughout the valley, as they had when the star-child took his wrist. She watched him now, a smile upon faint features, listening to the words that she needn’t help Lance find this time. 

“Why waste your skill, your strength in fighting with those that want to stand beside you?”  
“They don’t—”  
“They do! If not, why would they board your ship, listen to your commands, follow your lead?” Gereen had no answer, just a blank look and a slack jaw. He truly didn’t understand. He wanted revenge for Pantheon, for his home and all the people he lost, revenge for his family. He didn’t understand that another had found him, ready to help him as he had helped them, telling himself it was for his gain and not any other reason. The whispers of the Arroyo were venomous too, dragging him down to take advantage of those that put their trust in him.   
_Had he really not seen it?_

“Submit Gereen. Dying only cements the chance of never finding peace in the future.”   
It was the honesty in Lance’s voice that calmed the pair of them. The admission of not wanting to kill, but to work together, even if it was something that Lance had been saying from the start. The only difference now was that Gereen had finally heard him. 

“Very well Little Human, I submit to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Lance is making progress with the Solnha on his path to peace. 
> 
> Meanwhile, I wonder whats been happening with team Voltron...?


	26. A Want To Be Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team are desperate to find Lance. He’s been missing for days, but days can easily turn into weeks, into months… Will they ever see him again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve returned to the Paladins, but please note this chapter is very different to my others, in the sense that it consists of short little clippets, starting from the time of Lance’s disappearance. With that said, I hope you all enjoy.

**System:** Leuen  
 **Location:** Space

“Keith?”

Keith slammed his foot into the crutch of the Gladiator’s knee, sending it down with a heavy-handed blow to the back of its unguarded neck, his bare fist his weapon. His bayard had forgotten some time ago, when another combatant’s attack had knocked it from his hand. He replied in kind by knocking its head from its shoulders.   
It wasn’t the only one to feel his unrelenting wrath. Many already lay at his feet, or scattered around the sparring ring, most completely decapacitated of various limbs. Others were just various limbs that were missing entire consoles. 

“Keith? Buddy? C’mon, I know you can hear me. I haven’t done anything wrong, so please talk to me.” 

The intruder tried to claim his focus once more, the soft edge to his tone comfort he offers, yet none that Keith allows himself to take. Not when he can still think, not when his body can still feel. When his feet keep him standing and he has yet to submit to the pain the claws at his throat, his mind, his chest until he’s struggling to breathe.  
No, Keith cannot rest. The only thing he’ll allow himself to do is fight. To focus on the foe before him, the incoming jab of a bo staff that aimed for his thigh, yet skimmed it instead. The attack resulted in no damage for the Red Paladin, leaving only the Yellow to flinch at the ear-splitting shriek of metal on metal as it scraped against paladin armour. Amour that bore many scars from a carelessness he could not shed when he stepped into the sparring ring and threw himself at wave after wave of gladiators. 

One remained.   
It stood opposite, having played the game of retreat following its last attack that had almost knocked Keith to his knees. Would’ve, if Keith had let his focus waver more than acknowledging the second that watches, but it hasn’t and the soldier stands ready to challenge his foe.  
Keith raised his hands and waited, a glower the only thing enticing this thing to attack him. Un-needed as it was only metal and programming, with no sensor to detect Keith’s growing rage with every second it spent calculating its next move. 

Its next move never came. 

Hunk saw to that with a blunt command to the ship’s system, followed by another to completely lock it down. Rightly so, because if he hadn’t, Keith would’ve just started it up again and kept on fighting. He tries to now, but the only one that can stand against him is Hunk. The last opponent, one he can bait with words, knowing he understands where the Gladiators do not. “What do you mean you haven’t done anything wrong? You agreed with _him,_ didn’t you?”  
“I didn’t—”  
“You did. While I was helpless, healing in a cryogen chamber, you all gathered upon the Bridge and threw him away. Allura may have offered herself to take his place, but _he_ accepted and so did all of you. None of you stood up for him.”   
“That doesn’t mean I wanted Lance gone.”  
“No?” Keith snarls, irritation twisting with anger like snakes under his skin. Their scales too close to the dark shade of black, the colour of hate that burned like poison inside him. He thought himself poisoned once, like Lance has been. But he wasn’t the Trigamons’ prey and their needle never met his neck. This poison was his creations; its fuel the folly of his teammates. 

Mind not in the present, Keith rounds on Hunk, searching for fight and a release to everything that build’s inside him. He’s face to face with him. And Shiro that stands at his shoulder.   
He is here for the hopes of reconciliation, or perhaps an ear for his apologies, but Keith won’t have it. He’s not finished feeling angry just yet.   
With his jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding and eyes deliberately averted, the older is ignored. Has been, since the last time they argued and Keith cursed his name for failing Lance. 

“What the hell?” the Red growled, crossing the distance, mind torn between the moment of fighting and the appearance of Shiro. It was Hunk whom he addressed, rage venting before he could forget himself and turn on the other. He didn’t want to hurt him, to hurt any of them, but minds lost to anger are minds lost all the same.   
Neither reacted to the clenched fist, or barely contained fury that saw Keith charge across the room, getting in Hunk’s face, demanding to know why Hunk bothered to get in his way, why anyone bothered to interrupt him when he tried to cope with missing Lance. First he tried taking Red out, searching as far as she would allow until hunger and sleep called him back to the castle. Time and time again he scoured the stars, visited planets with the hopes of a name on the wind.   
But nothing.   
Not even the Galra he found, the ones he threatened to kill unless they answered him. Whether they knew if the Blue Paladin was a prisoner. They said he wasn’t. _Lies,_ he snarled, ready to cut their throats. But no, Lance was not their prisoner, if not it would’ve been broadcast with Zarkon gloating at the _“Defenders of the Universe.”_  
And hard as it was, Keith believed them. It was the only hope he had been given that Lance was not at the mercy of their torture. Not a champion in their coliseum, or a slave to their King.

But hope found is easily lost, and it’s a weak thought when it comes to calming him. Voice rising, he continues to vent because it’s all he can do not to swing a fist in the Black’s direction. “I’m trying my hardest here. You all stopped me taking Red, and now that I’m training so it’s easier to fight our enemies, you’re all getting in my way.”   
“You’re only hurting yourself.”  
“I’m not.”

They are at an impasse; Keith wanting to fight and Hunk stopping him from doing so. Before, it had been Lance’s role to tender the quick-to-change mood of the Red Paladin. But with him missing, and Keith beating himself up over blame and self-hatred, the duty fell upon Hunk’s shoulders. Pidge and Coran could’ve stepped in, but they wouldn’t tear themselves away from the Bridge long enough, too busy watching their scanners and sorting through any transmission they could get their hands on.   
Shiro was out of the question. Keith still wasn’t talking to him. It had been a week since Lance left, since the day Shiro decided Lance wasn’t to be the Blue Paladin anymore and shoved him aside. _“For the sake of Voltron”_ he claimed. For Allura more like. Keith hadn’t spoken to her since either….

“This isn’t about me, this is about Lance. I’m doing this for him, to _find_ him, to bring him back _home.”_  
And as calm as he instructed the Castle, Hunk spoke. “You’re not doing this for Lance. You’re doing this to beat yourself up. You’re doing the exact same as him.” There is anger in his carefully controlled voice, although Hunk’s face shows none of it. Keith’s is shock, Shiro’s too but he is to be ignored and it will stay that way. He is still angry.

But no, Keith’s not. He’s shocked. “I… I am— This _is_ for Lance,” he says, whether to convince Hunk or himself. But the words aren’t accepted. “No, you’re not. Beating yourself up to near exhaustion every day is nothing but hate for yourself. It doesn’t help Lance. It doesn’t help us find him.” It is Hunk’s turn to be angry, his mask slipping. “It’s selfish and volatile. Lance pushed himself too far, too hard and he paid the price for it. We could’ve stopped it, but we didn’t notice. But with you it’s as plain as day that you’re pulling yourself away from us. You’re just like Lance. But we will not let it happen again.”   
“Hunk’s right Keith. There are better ways to approach this than running at it head on.” Keith’s too shocked to even get angry, mind still reeling at Hunk’s words. Shiro continues, taking the opportunity Keith has unwillingly given. “I stopped you from taking Red before because you were going at it alone. You stopped searching for Lance and started hunting the Galra. I was worried that you would be hurt and we’d lose you too.”   
“No you weren’t you were just—”   
“Looking out for you,” he interrupted. “We’re all looking out for you. That’s why we’re here.”   
Keith makes to argue, but no words come out. 

Emotion drained and Keith’s adrenaline no longer being supplied to keep himself out of reach of the Gladiator’s blades, his body started to weaken. He hadn’t eaten since who knows when. Sleep wasn’t chosen, but forced upon when he passed out from sheer exhaustion at the end of each training session, or part way through. All of it to stop himself from dreaming, from hearing Lance’s screams.   
That’s why he trains. That’s why he distracts himself and plays the game of _“destruction”_ with his own body. All to stop himself from imagining the worst…

“Woah, woah, we’ve got you.” He had stumbled forward, but Hunk and Shiro caught him between them. Keith didn’t fight the older this time. Too tired, or not enough energy to feel anger, he accepted their help, inviting their warmth to his cold body. He hadn’t realised he felt as such, but with their hands holding him up, he recognised the void inside him. But he was missing more than warmth. 

“I’m tired.”  
“I know.”

“I’m hungry.”  
“I know.”

_“I miss him.”_

_“I know.”_

They led him out of the training hall and towards the kitchen where he could eat before they sent him to his quarters for some real rest. Something he had fought in the beginning. It had been self-inflicted punishment. 

And perhaps a bit of relief for him too: Comfort from the bitterness of not eating, the pain that came with a shrinking stomach. The forced restriction that means he’s not getting enough energy in the system.   
Fighting was harder but he became exhausted quicker, he passed out sooner and his brain, forced to shut down, failed to create nightmares that would wake him up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, choking on sobs. Haunted by the screams that would never leave his mind. 

Hunk was talking, Keith’s focus flickering in and out as thoughts tried to get in the way. “… been in there for six hours. Your body can’t take that much abuse.”  
“It can,” Keith argues, his mouth dry like he’s been eating sand and nothing but. Hunk mutters an insult. If Keith heard it he would’ve probably agreed, but he didn’t so he can’t. He stumbles, but Shiro adjusts his grip and keeps him from falling to the floor. They talk between the pair of them, agreeing not for food and rest, but the cryo-chamber that will heal Keith’s muscles and body. Hunger could wait until after, when they could feed him and put him to bed.   
“’m not a child,” Keith grumbled. He wasn’t averse to the idea, rest sounded really good right now, but some illogical part of his brain told him he didn’t deserve it. Not with Lance still missing. “You’re just as bad as Pidge,” he heard Hunk sigh. “I don’t think they’ve left that chair in days. I’m worried about them. About you too.”   
“Don’t bother. Instead, worry about Lance and finding him.” Hunk says nothing to that. 

He continues helping Keith towards the infirmary. It will be empty, no doubt, with Pidge and Coran on the Bridge. The Princess was most likely with Blue, doing her best to console her and all the Lions. She spent most of her time in the hangars now, doing what she could to ease Blue’s pain. They would share their memories of Lance, letting the cool water of his energy surround them and soothe her.   
Lance’s memories soothed the other lions too.   
They all felt Lance’s disappearance; sharing this pain with the Paladins, who were already drowning in despair and guilt and _blame and disgrace and remorse and crushing pain and anguish and aching and…_ emptiness. 

The pain came in waves, gruelling, stealing appetite, draining energy and the will to get up and continue. But they fought it.   
For Lance’s sake, and the sake of finding him, they fought it. 

“Have been up to see Pidge recently?” It was small talk from Shiro’s behalf, to either the Yellow or Red, but perhaps he had chosen the wrong subject to start conversation with, as Keith stumbled with his footing, turning to their Leader with something akin to fear in his eyes. “Have they found anything?” Desperation is clear in his voice, and if he had the mind to think, he would’ve known they would’ve told him so straight away. But he’s not quite himself at the moment, so he doesn’t realise. Always fighting a battle between fear and hope, somehow allowing fear to prevail.   
“No. But Pidge was asking for you. Something about you asking them for a favour. They said they’re done.”   
“Oh. Yeah. That’s good.” But instead of relief that bad news was not Shiro’s burden, Keith is still deflated. It’s not that he wishes for bad news, but somehow, he thinks _some news_ is better than _no news._

“It’s going to be alright Keith. We’ll find him. You watch, next week he’ll come flying back with some crazy story and some scars to go along with it.”   
“I hope so. Anything will be better than this.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Ruse Minor  
 **Location:** Agoutima

Lance didn’t come back the following week.   
Nor the week that followed that.   
Or even the one that followed after. 

It had been the equivalent to an earthen month and the team hadn’t heard anything, not from their Alliance comrades, the vast connections acquired with their comradery with the Marmora, nor anything from the new civilisations that they came across as they continued their desperate search across the Galaxy.   
Even if not Lance’s name, the team were desperate to hope for some kind of sign that he had passed this way, but no Alien had been able to confess to sighting a Human other than those that stood before them. 

“Thank you, Paladins,” one of the denizens said, grasping Shiro’s hand tightly, after that Paladins had saved them from the clutches of the Galra. With their bases destroyed and their fleets damaged enough to call a retreat, Voltron took victory over them, thus saving the Cada of _Agoutima._ “We cannot offer you much in ways of helping search for your friend, but we can offer supplies, and the promise that we will ask for him from others that come to our world.” They have little, the Galra having taken all that they could, but still they offer food and rest on their planet. It is a notion that is welcomed, but the thought of halting in their search for their missing teammate is what stops them from taking up the Cada on their generous offer.   
It is not only regret, but disappointment that Shiro can’t shake. He hates it, knowing there is nothing heard of Lance despite being close to the sight that they found the broken pod that he took in which to run from them. But everyone he’s come across, every planet they have asked, they’ve all given the same answer. 

_No. We haven’t heard anything._

The team do not stay for the celebration, despite their hosts wishes. Instead they build a communication system between them, to allow ease of contact, should Lance’s name fall upon their ears. The Cada understand of course, and when they send Voltron off, they send their prayers with them, holding onto the promise they will do what they can for their missing teammate. They are not the first to hold such promise, nor will they be the last. But Shiro tires of dead ends as much as the team that slow under the tension their mission brings. Not just to defeat the Galra, defeat Zarkon and save the Galaxy.   
But to find Lance and fix the mistake that they had made, whether intentionally or not so. It is damage that needs to be repaired before victory can be claimed. And it is for their own sakes. To know that they hadn’t sent Lance to his death with mindless action that saw the divide in the team grow, unknowingly, until the chasm too wide and the boy too far for them to hear him. 

But what’s done is done and they can only forge onward, their destination unknown, for even they do not know where they will head in search of a sign. There is no clue they can consult, no light in the dark that will show them the way.   
They just have to hold onto hope that they will find Lance. And hold onto the hope that he will welcome them when they do. 

They venture to other planets, to other systems, moving outwards in a spiral pattern from the quarter where the pod was found. The day of the boy’s disappearance, merely hours since he had taken the ship and left, and it was already destroyed. Empty. Floating in dead-space. It was broken, parts were missing.   
But the worst of all, it was empty. Or perhaps not worst of all. Worse still would’ve seen Lance dead and lifeless, left to the stars by whoever murdered him. 

The pod’s discovery filled no holes though. Not to as who took Lance, whether they saved him or claimed him, prize, pet or slave. Those thoughts brought none comfort but it was all their mind could think when they heard the mewling of the lioness who lost her cub. 

Lance wasn’t dead.   
The lions weren’t mourning the loss of one of their own, but fearing his distance from them. They could all feel it, through their bond, every waking hour since Lance had disappeared.   
Allura felt the brunt of the pain the most, being linked with Blue since excepting the mantle. Not just for the sake of Voltron, but Blue and the Lions themselves, to help them all burden the same pain.   
Yet it wasn’t the same. A notion that became clear when the six joined hands in the circle and opened their minds to one another. An idea rejected by most, Pidge, Keith, Allura especially. But with wise words from the older Altean and the hope of healing, it didn’t take long before they settled, not in the training hall, where tainted memories of Lance remained, but in the lounge, with soft cushions and a gentle warmth to lull them into a peaceful state of mind. 

Their pain, shared but separate.   
For Hunk and Pidge, they lost a brother and close friend, searching for him to fill the void that was left inside them.   
Pidge couldn’t let go of their insults, the cold attitude they’d show when they needed peace of mind to concentrate, when they just wanted a moment alone. And Lance, who was their friend and honorary brother didn’t want them to suffer alone. They came with warmth and love but Pidge just slammed the door in their face, over and over, _over and over_ until the knocking stopped and the boy’s smile began to fade.   
Their lack of thinking made him feel less than capable. It didn’t matter for their brain and they way they could craft code into creations like a poet crafts words into emotion. It didn’t matter their age, their maturity, or their true purpose for remaining in space, but they thought themselves better, thought their goal more important and willingly shoved Lance to the side because they couldn’t help. _What else was there to feel other than self-hatred?_

Hunk’s pain came not in self-hatred, but in utter despair. Where once his light shone honey and gold it was nothing but dark and gloomy, sickly and weak as the smile and warmth of this once happy family began to show him the truth in reality, that there would always be losses and he had little to control that. Lance was not yet a loss, but the helplessness of not being there for him when he could’ve, the not knowing now, when, where and if they’d ever meet again….   
It was a weight that was hard to bear, harder to bear still when Yellow felt the same. Unable to take Blue’s pain from her, unable to help his paladin, their emotions were twisted together in a vulnerability that they couldn’t shy away from. 

Allura’s pain was self-hatred as much as the rest of theirs, but tainted logic had joined her emotion to make the spearhead sharper, it’s reach further, the force too much to defend from as it plunged deep inside her heart. For she had been the one to step forward when she thought she saw the problem, and the solution. It had been Allura who had been the one to offer up the words that saw her putting herself her before Lance, when he so desperately needed their help.   
It had been selfish. She had seen an opportunity to prove she was more than a princess, a chance to be a Paladin, just like her Father. She thought to make him proud, to secure her place as part of the team. Her selfishness blinded her the moment she let the thought cross her mind. And through her actions, she cast Lance aside for her own egotistical desires.   
In Allura’s mind, she saw herself the villainess; who gave Lance a cold shoulder whenever he made to speak with her, who huffed and sighed, and rolled her eyes when all he wanted to do was make her smile. She sees that now. _Why couldn’t she see that before?_

Coran and Shiro were much in the same of taking the blame, both seeing themselves as responsible for those they saw as children. Because they were children, even if they were meant to be soldiers fighting in a war. Shiro blamed himself for pushing too hard where Coran blamed himself for not pushing enough. He had hidden knowledge from the team, in his own wilful way to protect them, not understanding that the very act of withholding such was the very key to Lance’s downfall. If they had learnt together, then things would be different. There were so many things they could’ve done but didn’t, _so why did Coran have to be so selfish?_

Shiro could’ve changed it. He could’ve stopped when the lecture began, or never started them at all. He should’ve been that ear when Lance found him in the dark, should’ve reached back when Lance reached out. He was as much to blame as Coran, Allura, _all of them,_ if any of them were to blame. Keith had made sure of that. 

But, it wasn’t so. 

Because as much as they were filled with blame and self-hatred, none felt it as fierce and painful as Keith. Where there’s stood bright flames that threatened to burn them, Keith was already consumed, simply bearing the pain until his body would break apart. He blamed himself, not just for doing nothing, but for not admitting to the truth of feelings he barely understood himself.   
To save his mind from the torment of his own foolishness, he had tried to push the flames to his team; the closest targets that could sate his anger for a moment. But he hadn’t, and he’d kept the fire to himself to save them from the burden of his pain. His distance, his separation from them wasn’t through anger, but through fear. Fear of reminding them that _he_ was the one that Lance fought, that _he_ was the one that could’ve stopped it all, that _he_ was the key to the solution but he was too much of a coward to turn the lock and admit to the emotions he never allowed himself to feel.   
Keith clung onto every argument, every animosity held between them and let it fuel the inferno. He kept himself away to stop from speaking in pain and hurting them all, from making things worse. _But how could things possibly get worse?_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Varo  
 **Location:** Space

Coran pulled himself from his thoughts as he balanced tray and drink on his way to the Bridge. He had been in the same position for too long, _both literally and physically,_ he thought, trying to ignore the twinge in his lower back and the dread that crept up his throat at the thought of returning to Pidge and finding ill news rather than good. 

But entering was the same as every other time Coran took himself to the consoles to help the Green Paladin monitor the incoming transmission, and their scan searching for distress beacons and anything else that would lead them to a clue. Or the possibility of one.   
Pidge was slumped in their usual place of the Black Paladin’s chair, using the main monitor and its sheer size to take up as much room as possible with data feeds, strings of various code and Galran jargon that they were trying to decipher in any attempts to locate their missing brother. 

Coran set the tray down on the end of the console, beside the out-of-focus Green Paladin, aware of nothing more than the recordings on their screen. It was hard to see them like this, all full of hope, longing and suffering. But they were the only masks the Paladins were wearing now.   
Pidge hadn’t been as strong as the rest of them. They had barely been able talk without their voice breaking, barely able to join the others in the mess hall before their mask had slipped, when tears were spilt, sobs were heard and they had fled from the hall before anyone had a chance to console them.   
But how were they to console Pidge when, deep down inside they all felt the same inescapable weakness of emotion? 

Now was different. Instead of tears and weeping, there was a blank emptiness, as _nothing_ as the void in which they searched.   
Days had become weeks. Weeks had become months and the hope to find Lance well was dwindling.   
The hope to find Lance at all, _was dwindling._

Afterall, one will become numb to the pain after enduring for so long. 

“Pidge?”   
They’re not listening, but that’s to be expected as their eyes remain on the screen, skipping over all the information that comes in and information they’ve already reviewed, for fear of having missed something. They bare the weight of searching more than the others, having crafted the codes that piggybacked on other transmission and relayed their context to the Castle. Hunk helps where he can, Coran too, but there is only so much one can suffer before they need time for the mind to heal. 

Pidge has gone beyond that point. Like Keith, that cannot do _nothing,_ no matter how much someone says sleep will help. They disbelieve it, saying Human’s are weak for their need to sleep, when there are more important tasks at hand. Exhaustion makes them irritable, their once smooth demeanour spiky and guarded, warding off unnecessary distractions to their work.   
Allura tried, hoping to calm the younger into understanding they were being just as destructive as Keith. Yet Pidge refused and, in their spite, threw hurtful words at the Princess. _“Sleep if you want, it’s the only thing you’re good at. God knows you’ve slept for the past ten thousand years, letting Zarkon reign terror while you hide under your duvets.”_  
Understanding had them apologise, the understanding of everyone’s pain deemed no grudge held. And Pidge had allowed themselves to be led away, with the promise that Hunk and Coran and the Princess would watch the screens. They would send for Pidge should they spot anything.   
But such promises are hard to repeat, and Pidge’s resilience to rest was reaching another peak. Three days, and the bags under their eyes were dark, their skin pallor. Their very being was muted and slow, meaning a light approach was best. 

“Pidge, Hunk made you food. He said you didn’t come down for dinner.”  
Dinner, breakfast, lunch, _what did it matter?_ It was just another meal to separate one moment and the next, none different than that last or the one to follow. Hunk kept them all fed and quelled any thoughts of hunger strikes from both Green and Red Paladins. They had the same idea in self-inflicted punishment, but after they saw what their ignorance had done to Lance, and how quickly it drove him from their sides…   
Well. They weren’t going to make that mistake again. 

“Pidge, food.”   
Coran raises his voice, but when that doesn’t raise their awareness to his presence, he leans in to shake their shoulder. It is only a light touch, but still it jolts Pidge from their disassociation.   
“Huh? Coran? What is it? Do you see something?” they ask, eyes wide to the Altean before staring back at the screen, leaning closer as if they couldn’t see properly before.   
When Coran doesn’t answer, and Pidge finds anything of noticeable value, they turn back, mind catching up to motion, reading the small, sad smile that sits beneath his moustache. “I see a young Paladin that is working themselves too hard.”   
Pidge opens the mouth to argue, probably to tell Coran they’re not tired, but he doesn’t give them the chance. “I see someone who fears missing a sign of Lance, yet in their exhaustion, they’re more likely to miss the clue.” It is logic; sound and true. Something Pidge agrees with if their silence is anything to go by.   
They don’t offer to take themselves to bed, however, but remains in silence as they stare at the screen that hides the secrets of locating Lance. 

Coran doesn’t back off, but he doesn’t push too quickly either.   
Pidge’s resemblance to Keith’s is becoming worrisome, and the same, soft-handed approach is to be maintained. Hunk assured them all was well, that Pidge had done the same back on Earth when the all-important, yet terrifying _“exams”_ came about. Not sleeping was the way they tried to work through their problems, and although the method wasn’t too appealing, the end result had always been worth it.   
But this wasn’t exams. This was scrolling through reams of data to find a sliver of hope. And exhaustion served no purpose here other than to put stress on Pidge and stress on the team. 

“Here, why don’t I have a look while you eat. It’s not too hot, but it’ll taste better now than when it’s cold.” Pidge looks back to the broth offered on the tray and warm drink. It’s Kaltenecker’s milk with Lance’s twist of added sweet-bean. A series of emotions played across the younger’s features, settling on anger. “Don’t want it,” they spat. “Are you sure? He knew how much you loved it. Isn’t that why he would wake you, so the two of you used to sneak to the kitchens in the middle of the night, staying up late to talk with one another.”   
Pidge’s eyes widen as they look to the older. “You knew?”   
_“Of course I knew._ Who do you think made sure there was plenty sweet-bean in stock?”   
That has them smiling. It’s small, a barely-there-smile, but it is a smile all the same. 

“You should sleep Pidge. I’m here, I can watch the Comms. Hunk will be free when he and the others are finished eating, so I can get him up here, maybe Keith too. At least then he’ll be out the training room and there are plenty of eyes to stand-in for yours.”   
“I don’t need sleep.”   
“You do. We all do.” His tone was not harsh, but firm, ode to patience wearing thin and the warning that Pidge was beginning to push their luck. Keith has already self-destructed once and they all refuse to let anyone else do the same. 

Pidge sighed. “Fine. But I’m only going once they’re here. If they don’t come, then I don’t go.”   
And that is all Coran can ask for. He nods, even though Pidge isn’t looking at him but they’ve taken the tray, drink included, and have taken their eyes off the screen for a minute. They won’t turn back on their word now, he knows that, so leaving isn’t a chore as it normally would be. 

From behind, he hears two small words. “Thanks Coran.” 

It makes the man smile. Not beaming, not face-splitting, but a small, genuine smile just like Pidge gave him. It is one that remains with him as he heads back down to the kitchen. Keith, Allura and Hunk are gathered. They see the change upon the Altean’s face, desperate for an answer to why. But their hopes are dashed when he explains. But relief, no matter how small, remains in the knowledge that Pidge will retire soon. Not the news they hoped for but news they’ll accept all the same. 

Per Coran’s words, Keith and Hunk finish their meal quickly and headed up to the Bridge to take watch. As they left, Shiro entered, quick to notice the subtle change in mood. He turned to Coran. 

“Anything?”

_“Nothing.”_

Somehow, Shiro knew the answer would be the same, even before he spoke. But ask he did, all the same, for the sliver of hope that this time, _maybe this time,_ the answer would be different.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Why can I not understand it?” Pidge growled, voice very nearly a shout as they slammed clenched fists on the modules. Poor aim determined them to accidently hit some keys and several of the damn screens closed. Amidst colourful cusses, Pidge pulled everything back up again before slumping into their chair, staring listlessly at the small blips of colour that remained only to laugh at them.  
Lance was there, somewhere, but they just couldn’t find him. It was heart breaking.

“Anything?”

Pidge turns, catching eyes with Hunk and Keith who entered, making a bee-line to where the younger sat in the Black Paladin’s chair. And turning from them; 

_“Nothing.”_

They palmed their eyes and hid their face in an attempt to avoid attention to the sniffing, acting as if it was nothing more than an itchy nose.   
They were fooling no one. 

“Pidge—”  
“I’m _fine_ Keith. It’s just…” They trailed off, making a point to keep their gaze purposefully turned, even as the two continued their approach, coming to stand either side of the chair. Hunk lay a hand on their shoulder, but Keith slide onto the seat’s armrest, letting gravity shift Pidge aside until they were settled together – albeit cramped, but content with the closeness all the same.   
Lance’s departure had changed Voltron in many ways, but the most obvious changes of all, were that of the team’s closeness. Keith especially, now more comfortable with the intimacy of his family, changing from rejecting affection to seeking and offering his own where he knew it would help. 

It had taken time, it had taken them _all_ time, and despite the searching for their Brother and the near-constant worry that filled their minds, they were growing stronger. 

Hunk watched on as Keith shuffled closer to Pidge, taking the half-eaten broth and the empty cup from where it sat near their feet. He took it, and himself, out the way, making a run to the kitchen while he could, making a mental note to make Keith and himself warm drinks for their night-shift on watch duty. 

The other two didn’t notice the big guy slipping away, already talking as they sat, squished, the tight space forcing them to tangle their legs together. Neither complained. 

“Want to talk about it?”   
Pidge cocked their head. “Says the guy who held silence with everyone for a week when we asked you to open up.” Keith shrugged, but uneasiness lay in furrowed eyebrows. “It was after that stupid mind-meld thing. I don’t really understand exactly _what_ I feel for Lance, or how much of it I feel, and I didn’t really appreciate everyone going around, poking holes in my head.  
“Didn’t really appreciate all the needless talk afterwards either.”   
“But you want to talk now.”  
“About you, not me.” 

Pidge nodded at that, leaning their head back, finding the crease between Keith’s shoulder and head. They yawned, but stubbornly ignored it. “I know what I need to do. It’s a simple binary problem, but my head refuses to let me see it black and white, always wanting to throw in red.”   
“Black being…?”   
“Black being the hole and Lance being the white piece that fills it. It is “A to B.” Find Lance, fill the gap.” Pidge speaks as if it is simple, which, it is, really, if all the other variables are taken out the picture. But they’re not. Because this isn’t a science project or a maths’ equation with only one answer.   
This is an egg hunt in the wild, without the definite truth of their being an egg to find…

“So Black and White is the problem. What is Red?”   
Pidge didn’t answer, staring at the screen and the same colour dots that took precedent over the other colours on the maps. Red. Places already visited that left nothing but holes in their hearts and pain in their chest. 

“It’s his blood.”   
Pidge turned, eyes tearing, lip quivering as they met Keith’s gaze. “It’s all I can see. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is Lance, dead. Dead or dying, and he’s calling out for us.

“But we can’t hear him.” Pidge’s voice wavers, breaking on the sobs that catch in their throat and make them cough.   
“I’m so scared, Keith. It’s not the same as it is with my Dad, or with Matt. To everyone else, Dad is just a Human, and Matt has already been rescued. But Lance is a part of Voltron. If the Galra find him— _Oh god,_ what if they’ve already found him—”  
“Pidge, Pidge it’s okay,” Keith says, taking their hands in his, pulling them away from their eyes that are already puffy and red. Still the tears fall and the child can’t hear Keith who calls to calm them. 

“It’s just, I feel like everyone is waiting for me, that they’re all relying on me to find Lance. That…. That _he’s_ waiting for me to find him.

“But Keith, I can’t stop hearing his screams. I can’t get them out my head. All I can think is that I’m not doing enough, that the answer is there, staring me in the face and I’m too stupid to see it.   
“That I’m too late and he’s already—” They stopped, voice cracking, pulling their hands from Keith’s as they buried their face, blubbering as the dam wall finally burst and they couldn’t hold back the flood. 

But even with words unspoken, Keith knew their fear. He shared it too, of course he did; he wasn’t a mindless fool bound by hope and nothing more. 

_“You fear that he’s already dead.”_

Silence.   
And a nod. 

Keith wrapped his arms around the Green Paladin, bringing their head to his chest. “No Pidge, he’s not, he can’t be. If he was, we would all know.” He let his fingers card through their hair, saying nothing to the shuddering of their small body against him, the soft touch of damp that soaked through his t-shirt as they sat there, together in the gentle quiet. 

Lance wasn’t dead.   
_They would know._


	27. A Want To Be Connected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How many days has it been since he left? How many days will it be before they see him again? Will they see him again?_  
>  The team are still searching, but slowly, they’re beginning to think that finding Lance after so long is folly. Not everyone wants to admit that however, and they’re not going to give up until they find Lance and _bring him home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have to say a massive thank you to Feytality for their wonderful comment that made me re-read the last chapter with a different mindset. And so, this chapter is going to be an expansion on the Paladin's point of view, with a bit more "positive" outlook on Lance's supposed position, now that he's left them.  
> Thank you Feytality, for giving me another angle to look at! 
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying this story so far, but we still have a ways to go yet.

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Space

The Black Paladin stared up at the curving ceiling of the lounge, slowly waking from what felt like a sleepless night. He _had_ slept, but not for long, broken moments between one and the next as he wandered the halls, looking for comfort where he could. He’d been with Pidge for a time, standing guard by their pod, unable to stop himself from searching the shadows for any enemies lurking in the shadows.   
But there was no one to threaten the Green Paladin, and unable to fight the tiredness the pulled on Shiro like wet clothes and quicksand, he let his body take itself to bed. He hadn’t remained long, even when Black felt the shift in his Paladin, a gentle nudge to his mind much like a parent telling their child to stop fighting sleep.   
Shiro wasn’t fighting it, but sleep remained as elusive as Lance. 

The man groaned, not wanting those thoughts to encroach on his mind too soon. Worry had always been his constant companion, with everything; his illness, helping Keith, the year of being a prisoner, missing Sam, missing Matt, _missing Lance…_

Shiro palmed his eyes, pushing himself up off the sofa, attention pulled to the weight of a _something_ slipping from his shoulders. A blanket.   
“Ah Shiro, you’re up.” The man turned to the chipper tone, quiet out of respect for the man still in the moment of ‘waking.’ “Coran? Did you—”  
“Yes, yes. I’ve told you where they’re kept, so if you were going to sleep—”  
“I didn’t mean to. I was struggling to last night, and ended up walking.” He laughed, the sound clipped and unamused. “I went to the kitchen. The _kitchen_ Coran. That’s where Lance used to wait when he knew I wouldn’t sleep, and we’d…. we’d….” 

The man dropped his head into his hands, a long sigh drawn out in hopes that Coran could understand what he was trying to say with just that. Words just… _weren’t_ at the moment and he had neither the mind, nor energy to force them. 

“Will you allow me to be his substitute? For the time being, I mean,” the older offered, holding out a warm drink for Shiro, sitting beside him as he held his own. “Be careful what you offer. You might end up taking the job permanently, just like Allura.” The words weren’t meant to be mean, but Shiro’s tone implied as such. 

Coran made a broken noise. “She’s only standing in for Lance. She’ll step down the second he returns.”  
 _“If_ he returns.”   
_“When,”_ Coran challenged, his tone telling Shiro not to argue. 

_He’s not doing a good job of being me, is he?_ Lance said in his mind, the joking laughter pulling a faint smile to the man’s lips.   
“You know, Lance used to agree with me, even when I tried to trick him by deliberately being wrong.”   
“Well Lance has his own ways of being useful and I have mine.”   
“And his disappearance is being useful?” 

The gentle feeling was gone, a bitter-taste in Shiro’s mouth. He felt guilty for words the sounded like a direction of blame, but emotions have a wave of taking the reins when they get too powerful. “Because yeah, he’s done us a real favour by disappearing and making us worry. He decided for us Allura would take his place anyway so he doesn’t need to worry, but it’s not like its been easier. Allura might be a stronger fighter, but she’s inexperienced. She’s—”  
“Not to blame. And neither is Lance. No one is, while we’re on the matter. His leaving us was just the result of unspoken words, on accounts of both parties.”

Shiro shrugged away Coran’s concern, standing from the sofa in favour of standing. His body had acted of its own accord of course, pushed from a surge in emotion. _Guilt, regret, anger, helplessness—_ “But we didn’t notice anything. I told them to give him space, so it’s my—”  
“Lance kept his space too. He didn’t reach out, didn’t ask for help.” 

Coran’s voice was one of reason, reminding Shiro that he couldn’t bare the weight of the Universe. It was his self-sacrificing personality, the need to solve everyone’s problems but refusing to accept his own, refusing to accept that blame was futile, that it changed nothing, did nothing but weigh him down more.   
With nothing to say, Shiro nods his head. Coran isn’t fooled into thinking Shiro believed him, but he can see the man is tired and needs his rest. 

“Come on. You need some proper sleep.”   
“I’ve tried.”   
“But you didn’t ask me for something that will knock you out for a few Varga. Might give you a little headache when you wake, but I’ve got something for that too.” 

Shiro’s impromptu nap lasted seven Varga. He didn’t have a headache like Coran expected, yet it was hard to shift the tiredness, mind searching for another that might be able to offer comfort where he found none.   
Black gave what he willed, yet words and answers to an abundance of questions remained private. Shiro understood, ignoring the smile in his mind when Black felt his Paladin’s ripple of irritation. 

Irritation soon broke through for disquiet. Training would help settle whatever bugged the man, and with that in mind, made it his plan to search for another to join him in the hall. 

He dragged himself up out of Hunk’s chair, taking the moment to look over at Pidge who remained in the residence of his own seat, their preferred throne where they had direct view of the main holo-display. Their legs were tucked around them, a blanket at their feet, dangerously close to knocking over a mug that sat near them. Another was held unthoughtfully in their hands, their lips pursed around a straw, making that weird sucking sound that signified they had already finished.   
Pidge was unaware, their eyes flickering over the screens in front of them, scanning, re-scanning and sorting through vast amounts of data. Shiro wasn’t entirely sure where they were getting it all from. Certainly not just from the pirates. Perhaps the alliance, and the Blade too.   
They knew by now, of course.   
But the truth of the matter was concealed behind a lie. 

_“Lance got caught off guard during a mission. He couldn’t get back to his Lion, escaped in a pod, but hasn’t been seen since.”_

Perhaps it was shame of their failure they lied, pretending they did so for the sake of maintaining Lance’s reputation, and not their own. But reason or no, the others were informed, and more took to the stars in search for their missing hero. 

Shiro glanced back to Pidge, wanting to ask them to take a break, knowing such effort was futile. Even gaining their attention would be pointedly ignored and Shiro didn’t have the energy to invite more discord into the already dissonant team. 

They were working and working hard; a gesture appreciated but one that bred concern. Shiro’s gaze lingered.   
Pidge’s hair was messy, pushed back with an Alice-band give to them by Allura. Their eyes were red behind their glasses, sat askew upon the end of their nose, doing nothing to help them see the answer that may or may not lay in front of them.   
But it didn’t matter. They were only fake glasses; a memento of Matt and nothing more.

Pidge held a memento of Lance too.   
Clinging to their small frame, swamping their upper body, the sleeves rolled back twice to allow their hands to still tap methodically at the keys. They had pulled the hood up too, hiding the view of their greasy, unkempt hair.   
Pidge kept his jacket close at all times. It was one of the boy’s spares, found by chance after it had been mixed up in their laundry, thrown in the back of their wardrobe. Pidge had cried themselves to sleep when they had first found it, clutching the jacket to their chest. They refused to take it off once they woke. 

No one questioned it. 

But more often than not, when eyes were cast to the jacket, they held a lingering sadness, guilt and regret. If anyone wanted to hold Pidge close, bury themselves close and just… _breathe._  
Well, Pidge never denied them. As long as they were left to work through the data, the youngest Paladin let everyone else do as they pleased.

Allura was with them now, curled up to their side, the mice nestled on the blanket that they shared. Just like her companion, the Altean girl hadn’t thought to care much for themselves; her hair pulled back into a loose pony-tail to avoid its care, shadows under tired eyes,   
The Princess rarely let the team see her so down-trodden, but there were times when even she could no longer put up a front. Three months of wishing for Lance, for being unable to escape the blame and the weight he left for her to bare. For all of them to bare… 

Allura was speaking softly, just letting her tongue fall loose, mind not catching on emotion that might stop the flow of thoughts to one that probably couldn’t even hear her.   
But if talking to Pidge helped the Princess, then Shiro wasn’t one to interrupt. He returned to the plan of searching for another to train with. His movements called Allura’s attention, who raised her head, watching him. When their eyes met, they shared a smile, Shiro raising a hand in silent farewell. Allura’s smile softened, before she rested her head on Pidge’s shoulder and continued speaking; the low hum of her voice joining the harmony of Pidge’s typing. 

It was hard for Allura; harder than any of the team could think to understand. Sure, they all felt responsible, all wishing they had done something, but for Allura, she was left to wish she _hadn’t._ Because she stepped forward and offered herself as a stand-in. She was the one that took the mantle from Lance, hoping to help carry it, not realising that Lance would abandon them the second the weight was lifted from his hands. 

Chained to the regret of actions that couldn’t be undone was Allura’s burden.   
Bound to the regret of inaction was Shiro’s. Entirely different, but heavy all the same. 

“Shiro?” 

The Black Paladin turned to where his name was called, the voice pulling him from his lingering thoughts. He spied a pair of faces at the doorway, unsure whether they should enter or not, spying the intimacy of the pair that shared their Leader’s chair. 

“Anything?”

Shiro brought a finger to his lips, ushering not to disturb the moment of peace, however fragile, quickly joining Hunk in the hall, where they could speak freely.   
Hunk’s eyes remained upon the older, Keith’s too as they waited for an answer to that same one-worded question, that held so much weight in those three small syllables.   
Chest tight, lips pressed, Shiro could offer them nothing but the same crushing answer. 

_“Nothing.”_

It was expected, and naturally if the answer was anything but, they’d be called to the Bridge the second they found _anything._ But the hope of _maybe_ was enough to delude logic and ask the question anyway. The same empty answer was clear before the question asked, but even the pre-knowing didn’t halt the feeling of hurt that dragged up every time it was said.   
_How long could this go on for? How long could they all keep hoping, keep wishing beyond all reason that this nightmare would end in light?_

How far was Shiro willing to let this go before they all came to the same understanding that… that there was no then to follow.   
Statistics on earth gave missing people _hours_ to survive. Lance was in space and he had been gone more than hours, more than days. He had been missing for months. Four, if Shiro’s head had tracked it all correctly, but then he couldn’t say for definite. He only knew…

“I think it’s time we all sit down. We need to talk,” Shiro said softly, catching two worried gazes in an instant. A third as Coran approached, hurrying when he saw the fear in their eyes. “Anything?  
 _“Nothing.”_ It was relief for the man, who thought the worst.   
How odd, that the notion of nothing was more comforting that the knowledge of Lance’s whereabouts. 

Shiro looked back to the two on the Bridge, aware of the judgement looming over him as Black watched on, waiting. He knew what he wanted to say, but not how to say it, fearing the misunderstandings the crew would take from such a proposition. Even he was against it, but what more was there to be done than understand that there was no more trail to follow. _He was gone._

“Shiro? What is it?”   
But the man just shook his head. “It’s something best to be said when the whole team are gathered.”  
“Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” Keith said simply. The puzzled looks pulled a furrowed brow from the Red Paladin, the rise of his dander slow. _As if they had forgotten him. As if they no longer thought him part of the crew._

And all too soon, the other three realised Keith’s implication, their own mistake worn in shame and sorrow. “This is what I mean Keith,” Shiro began, his voice as pained as it was when he first helped the boy from the cryo-pod, to tell him Lance had left them. And now he wanted him to consider that he might not be coming back. 

“There is a line in the sand that we cannot cross,” Shiro said, placing a hand on the younger’s shoulder, trying to convey through more than just words. “We’ve been searching for months, our allies too. Lance lost his ship within _a day_ of leaving. By his own steam, he couldn’t have gotten far, but with another, they may have taken him far from here. Far from our reach.”   
“So you’re suggesting we give up.” Keith’s accusation was steel upon ice, the straw that broke his back, his hold gone and anger in hand as he slapped Shiro’s arm away from him. “He would never do that to you. But because it’s easier, you’ll just wash your hands of him.”   
“I’m not—”  
“Then don’t speak of abandoning him.” 

Shiro made to reach for him again, but the boy shrugged his concern away, a snarl on his tongue and fire in his eyes. “He’s Lance! He’d never give up on any of us if anyone of us went missing! He would search to the end of the cosmos and even then keep going. And you want to _give up?”_  
The soldier’s voice rose in volumes, his rage pouring off him in shaking limbs, his clenched fists were too tight, blood seeping at crescent shaped wounds where nails dug too deep. “He would never abandon you, me, _any of us,_ even if he thought we hated him. He’d do everything to save us, risk everything, _sacrifice everything!”_

Keith took three steps back, shaking his head, trying to slow the churning torrent of thoughts and emotions he couldn’t control. Every time it came down to Lance, to failing him, for always failing him—  
Shiro’s hand found the boy’s shoulder, a bend to his knee bringing them eye level. “Keith, I didn’t mean—”  
“I know what you meant.” Keith didn’t shake him off this time, too busy glaring at the only family before him that was going to leave Lance to the stars. 

“It took losing you to realise I once had no one but you. I was the only one to fight my side when you were gone. The Garrison did nothing for me, they wouldn’t let me know _anything_ about your disappearance even though you were the only family I had left.  
“It took losing Lance to realise just how much I care for him, and pretending I didn’t was the worst decision I could’ve possibly made. 

Bottling everything up is stupid, and it’s driving me insane just how much I miss that pretentious bastard. I want to find him so I can apologise, and tell him everything I should’ve said when I had the chance.” 

Keith’s eyes narrowed, a hand simply shifting Shiro’s grip, his rage contained, fine tuned so now that burning inferno was a needle point arrow of white-hot rage, bursting through Keith’s body as he hung the threat in the air. “While I know that he is still alive and _he’s still out there,_ I’m going to find him.”   
“Keith no—”

“Don’t you dare speak of this again, or you’ll find yourself short another Paladin.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Karta XI  
 **Location:** Space

Hunk had never been scared of the dark before. But as he lay in his bed, unable to sleep, unwilling to close his eyes, he could feel the creeping feeling of dread lay heavy on his chest. 

It unsettled him.   
Know he thought he understood why Pidge kept dragging their pillow and duvet into his room, Keith’s, Shiro’s – anyone who would keep them company as they tried to sleep. But Pidge’s nest of blankets remained empty for now whilst the Green Paladin was busy taking a power nap in a cryogen-chamber.  
No fight put them there. It was just the work of overextension, Pidge pushing themselves too hard in their efforts not to let the team down, despite everyone being careful to monitor them. Sadly, not careful enough. 

The unsettled feeling remained with Hunk long into the night, after sleep and between it, in the hours when Hunk woke too sudden, too soon, his skin glistening, wet from perspiration. Yet his mind remained clouded from whatever haunted his dreams. 

The only ones awake were Hunk and Coran, the Altean busy monitoring Pidge’s codes should a change occur. The boy’s mind lingered on the thought of heading to the Bridge, the idea of company a want he hadn’t experience as painfully as he lay there, the energy to get up and _go_ to Coran non-existent.   
But being alone was too much. 

In the dark, Hunk reached out in his mind for Yellow, the soft press of their conscious against his. Yellow still slumbered, as expected of him, the image of him nestled up with his brothers and sisters a comfort to Hunk’s tired mind. He found strength in being close with Yellow: He was the mountain in the storm, the anchor to the small island of hope in the vast sea of despair.   
Even without Yellow’s purr to calm him, Hunk could focus on more than just the chill that sat like a spider on his neck, light touches of spindly legs, the whisper of a voice that was never there. 

The unsettlement remained, even in the morning, and in the moments when Hunk sought distraction from his daily routine. No longer just “wake, shower, eat, train, eat, sleep,” he had found other tasks to help divert his attention, as not to dwell on the sea that threatened to wash away his small island.   
Most days, Hunk would eat with the others, before joining the Princess in a quite nook somewhere in the castle. Today, they returned to Allura’s chambers, ready to continue with their daily _“history lesson.”_  
It wasn’t so much a lesson as it was a moment for the two of them to sit in peace, telling one another of stories, of Altea and Earth alike, helping to keep them grounded in the artificial gravity. It deepened their bond as teammates, and gave one another an insight into their vastly different, yet altogether similar lives.   
As Earth had wars, so did Altea. Long ago, before their many years of peace, Altea had been divided into many factions of population, much like Earth and their separate countries. But while Earth’s populace continued to squabble like petty children, Altea had been able to put aside their differences and come together in the hopes of peace and safety for all, under the rule of Allura’s great great _great_ Grandmother, right up until King Alfor himself. 

Allura had only know peace between Alteans, since childhood, right up until the early years of her adult life. Disputes with other planets were not missed, however, but it all came to a disastrous end when the Galra turned upon their ally, destroying Altea and her people.

Allura had told them all, by now, that Zarkon was once the Black Paladin. _No more lies, no more secrets,_ she said before she told them. The story of the Lion’s creation, her father’s role, the fall of Daibazaal and the fall of Altea. It opened them up to the chance of learning, Hunk all too keen. Not just to sate his curiosity, but he had found a welcome distraction to the empty room next to his, the lingering silence in the halls, the missing friend who couldn’t taste-test his new food.   
Not that Hunk experimented with his cooking any more. He didn’t have the energy for it. He didn’t have the energy for waking, for fighting and training, let alone slaving away in the kitchen for no one to appreciate his effort.   
But talking with Allura was easy. Some days easier than others, but still easier than watching the team beat themselves up for the loss they all felt deeply. 

“Hunk? Hunk, are you okay?”  
The boy looked up, unaware he had lost himself inside his own head. He was still with Allura, the pair sat across from one another in the annex of her room, drinks between them and the faint echo of the girl’s concern. She had been telling him of Altea’s fauna, but his own thoughts took his focus from her tales. “Sorry princess, I didn’t mean to get distracted.”   
“It’s alright,” the other said politely, pulling back their hand from where they had lain it upon Hunk’s to get his attention. She hadn’t seen him lose focus like that before. It worried her. 

“You look tired. Not sleeping well?”  
“Not last night, no.” The spider tip-toed along his spine. Hunk shuddered. “It’s just an uneasy feeling. I can’t shake it.”   
“We will find him Hunk. We’ll—”  
“No, it’s not that.” Because it wasn’t. Concern was there, worry too, but the unsettling feeling didn’t feel like it stemmed from such thoughts. Besides, he already had his own thoughts on his friend. 

The team stood on a different side of the board to the Yellow Paladin. Where they were, the others remained hopeful to find Lance, to wrap him in their arms and hold him tight when they finally found him, when they brought him home.   
Hunk no longer felt the same. He hoped it, of course he did. The foolish hope of a Human who couldn’t control his emotions, even as logic sat in the forefront of his mind. 

Hunk didn’t fear Lance’s death; he knew that his best friend was strong and stubborn, perhaps as much as Pidge, yet with a confidence that pulled everyone to his side, like he had his own gravitational pull. He wasn’t a prisoner. He wasn’t hurt.   
He’d be doing his part to defy the Galra. He wouldn’t turn his back on the war when so much hung in the balance. 

Lance was still fighting.   
He was still in the war. 

“Sorry Princess. I fear I’m not good company this morning.” Hunk bowed his head, rubbing his eyes as a tidal wave of exhaustion washed over him. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. We all know, we all feel it to. We just need to keep our eyes on the horizon.”   
“Yes, you’re right.” 

Hunk bid his goodbyes, making an excuse of tiredness and a growing headache. Rather than the solace of his bedroom, Hunk planned to head to the Bridge to see if anyone needed to swap from watch-duty.   
As he got to the door, the Blue Paladin called out to him. “Hunk. If you ever need to talk… if you ever want and ear… Just remember, _no more lies, no more secrets.”_ She smiled. Hunk too. “Thank you Allura.”   
But at the idea of voicing his thoughts, Hunk’s mouth ran dry and his stomach turned in an unfriendly way. His apprehension wasn’t shown however, as the boy walked, calm and sure to the Bridge, to find not Coran like he expected, but Keith, curled up in the Blue Paladin’s chair, the faint sound of Lance’s voice permeating the air.   
Like a once happy childhood memory, marred by the understanding of logic, the sound brings pain to Hunk’s mind and a tightness to his chest. His usual ready smile remains from his face, as he offers greetings and settles himself in Shiro’s seat, pushing aside the blanket that Pidge used to wrap their legs when they felt cold.

Hunk settled into the chair, trying to settle his mind in the array of numbers, hoping for the mundane of staring at the holo-screen for some peace of mind. He’d accept boredom over the sickness in his gut, the tightness of his lungs, the tightness of his lips. Smiling wasn’t an option today.   
As Hunk sat there, his mind pricked him with pain, spiders on his skin and under it, in his mouth in his throat—   
_Every muscle felt tight;_ sprung for action despite Hunk’s depleted energy supply. His body screamed for him to _do something,_ to run down the halls as fast as he could, to train for hours on end, to spend the energy that _just wasn’t there._ His body wanted more, his mind calling for a change from this daily in and out of waiting and nothing.   
Nothing wasn’t what his mind wanted, and so it sought a solution, taking the wrong path as Hunk’s mind became a carousel of ideas, each one more worrying and painful than the last. 

_Stop it, stop it!_ He needed it to stop, he needed—

“Hey Keith?”

Keith didn’t hear his name being called, his focus intent on the screen in front of him where he was scouring the feeds for the millionth time. His eye wasn’t trained for the anomaly of a signal transmission, preferring to beat himself up with the recordings of the last time Lance was on the ship, and sometimes even before that, searching for anything that might give them a clue to where he planned to go. Because just leaving wasn’t a thought brought on by Trigamon words.   
No, they had never instructed him to leave, nor their words offered the thought to bloom inside his mind. It was his own thought, one that he mulled over, revisiting it countless times as it grew and settled root inside him.   
With the seed already planted, the poison needed only to speed its growth. 

There is a sense of inevitability to it all. 

The thought that this was the future, that Lance would’ve always left them, be it today, tomorrow or a year. An unpleasant thought, but all that Keith could think as he reviewed the security feeds, watching the divide between the figures on the screen, watching as they all stood together, but Lance was always alone. Even as they stood in the group, no one ever looked his way, or laughed along with his jokes. They were all oblivious, and he, _always alone._

This wasn’t the work of one, but all. And so, Keith’s sense of inevitability fuelled his self-hatred. He didn’t share his understanding with the other team, to refrain the outward expansion of blame that had twisted around his heart. Instead, he sought a way to change what may lie beyond tomorrow.   
Lance, he hoped.   
And feared that instead, it was another that took his place as Blue Paladin of Voltron. 

_There is a sense of inevitability to it all._

“Keith?”   
Hunk’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, Keith looking over to where Hunk was watching him with a pained expression. “Why do you do that to yourself?”   
“Do what?”  
“Watch that,” the boy said, gesturing to the feeds of Lance and Keith in the training hall, some months prior, when they were actually getting on and Keith thought he was getting closer to him…  
“You’re beating yourself up as much as you are when you’re letting the Gladiators get their fair few hits through your defence. It’s pointless to contend with feelings when you’re already suffering as it is.”   
“It’s not pointless—” Keith quarrelled, yet continued no further when he knew that this repeating argument would see no end with his weak retorts and baseless ideas. He could tell them time and time again that he was searching for a clue, but what was there to find in the month-old, year-old data feeds when Pidge’s code were bringing in current information that might just hold a hint. A whisper of his name that would show the Paladin’s the way. 

Besides, every place that Lance has ever mentioned, every place that Keith has heard fall from his lips, they have already visited.   
They have been to _Narbra,_ where spires of rock stretch up to the endless cloud cover that makes it look like the world is always underground. Lance loved it, kept making jokes about cloud-ceiling far above.   
To _Contois,_ where small creatures, lighter than air and softer than water float between the rocks and the sky. 

They’ve already searched the forests of _Pell,_ where the trees grow so large, so high above the ground that it would’ve taken them days to reach the bottom. Lance challenged Keith to it, of course, but they didn’t have the time, simply making a pit stop for supplies and nothing more. Both boys received lectures when they tried to sneak off regardless.   
To _Euve,_ where the trees speak and the earth listens, where the sea stretches into the sky and sunset sinks deep into the soil.   
They’ve explored the vast expanse of _Ibis’_ open plains and raced the howling winds that chased them away, as if the very planet didn’t want them there.   
But they found no sign of Lance, or a whisper of his name to suggest that he had ever returned to those planets. 

“It’s not pointless to me,” the Soldier said, words firm but gentle; an end to the discussion before it could be discussed.  
Hunk accepted, and whatever he wanted to offer was settled behind closed lips. 

“Say,” the boy said, taking the topic of conversation back to his earlier question, when Keith wasn’t listening and Hunk hoped for a distraction from the torrent inside his mind. He didn’t want to talk, he couldn’t, but the boy’s mind begged for a release, someway to break the damn and let the flood of _everything_ drain out. To drain away. 

Hunk knew he shouldn’t have. But he couldn’t stop himself.   
Not after Keith blew up at Shiro for his thoughts that followed the same pattern. 

“I know that we’re all worried about Lance, and we’re hoping that he’s okay, but none of us have really considered that it’s all for naught.”  
 _“He’s not dead,”_ Keith hissed through his teeth, defending the hope that it wasn’t true. It couldn’t, he wouldn’t allow Lance to be gone, just like that, without ever having the chance to see him again, to apologise to him, to see his smile—

“That’s not what I meant.”

Keith raised his head; not sure what else Hunk’s words could imply. When anyone every raised the doubts of being unable to find their missing teammate, it always followed with the fear of his death. Something Keith refused to accepted, refused to even _think_ of.   
But what else could Hunk mean, _“all for naught?”_ The odd notion caught in his mind, a tilt of the head hoping to unsettle his thoughts and bring and answer to the forefront of his mind. “You mean, he doesn’t _want_ us to look for him?”   
“There is that,” Hunk agreed, tone sobering. “But that’s not what I was getting at. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it, and we’re all scared that Lance has been captured, that he’s a prisoner, if not at the Galra’s mercy, then another’s. But I can’t help but think _‘what if it’s not like that?’_ What if, when he left, he found allies instead of enemies, and is with them still, helping others.”   
“Allies like who? The Marmora?” Keith turned his body to face Hunk entirely, watching the animated way he moved his hands. “No, not the Marmora. Kolivan would’ve contacted us the second they heard from him.”   
“Or not, if Lance told them not to.” Hunk gave Keith a look. “You really think Kolivan wouldn’t say anything? He wants to defeat the Galra as much as we want to save the Universe from them. Do you really think that he wouldn’t tell us where Lance is, _Lance,_ who makes up part of the team, who would make us stronger if we were all together?”   
Keith lowered his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Kolivan isn’t in favour of feelings or emotions. If Lance fought him over that, he would’ve tied him up and hand deliver him to us himself.” The image of lance hog-tied with a ribbon, with Kolivan holding him straight-faced was too funny not to laugh at. Keith however, just sniggered to himself, turning back to the feed, feeling lighter.   
Then Keith imagined Lance wearing the tight-skin blade armour, something akin to _heat_ pooling low in his body, stolen from him by his own mind that pushed out _lust_ in favour of _logic._

“But, if Lance isn’t someone’s prisoner, or he’s not stranded somewhere, then why hasn’t he returned to us?”   
And Hunk, too quick to answer, said simply “because he thinks we’re better off without him. Because he thinks we don’t want him here.” His tone was blunt, words clipped with an edge unlike sadness, but irritation, too soft to be heard by the Red Paladin that hears the words and misunderstands their meaning. He thinks Hunk wants to give up searching, that that is what Lance wishes even without the boy here to tell them himself.   
Keith thinks Hunk wants to abandon the search before they can learn if Lance is truly safe.   
“That’s not the only reason he hasn’t come home.”   
“I know,” Hunk sighed, not catching onto Keith’s growing resentment.   
“I fear he won’t come home either.”

“HE’S NOT DEAD!”   
Keith leapt from the chair, anger coursing through him like lightening. Hunk rose with him, just as fast, already defending against the storm of his own making. “Why is it that every time we talk about Lance, he’s got to be locked up somewhere, or dead! Why can’t he be with someone he trusts, why can’t he have found himself friends to fight beside—”  
“WE’RE HIS FRIENDS! HE WAS FIGHTING BESIDE US!”  
“He was fighting _with_ us Keith. The last time you saw him, he was trying to _kill_ you—”  
“THAT WAS THE POISON,” Keith roared, turning from Hunk as if that would ease the pain, that it might stem the fuel to the fire that burnt inside him. 

“The poison wouldn’t do that,” Hunk shouted back, voice just as loud, just as tempered with emotion. “You heard what Coran said. It only leaves the victim open to suggestion. With Lance keeping his distance from us, the only one he could listen to was himself and his hallucination. _You know that._  
“You’re the one that watches those videos, you’ve practically memorised them. You _know_ that no one told Lance to do what he did but the voice, and that _is Lance._ It was no one else.” 

No. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t…

_[“Look if you want me to apologise for my mistakes, I will. But I’m not taking the blame for everyone else anymore. So sorry, or whatever, but I’m tired and I need a shower and sleep.”]_

_[“Sorry, I thought… I think I heard…”]_   
_[“Heard what?”]_   
_[“I guess it was nothing.”]_

_[“I didn’t think you trusted me.”]_

_[“If they ask questions, just don’t tell them anything that will make them think we can’t work together. I can’t keep causing more problems.”]_

_[“What did I do wrong?”]_

_[“Keith, you can’t tell them the truth, or how bad I got hurt. You all have bigger things to worry about other than me.”]_

_[“He was trying to leave and it got me angry, like he didn’t care that he’d almost got himself hurt and was trying to pass it off. I… I said too much.”]_

_[“I need to train. I need to get stronger so I won’t be a burden again.”]_

_[“What is there to believe? It’s the truth. They’re all so strong, all so good at something, and I’m just me, struggling to keep up with them. If I stop, for even a second, I’m going to get left behind. I know they all don’t think I’m worthy to be a Paladin, and if I keep screwing up then they’re bound to replace me sooner rather than later, so yeah, I’ve got to get stronger. I have to put my all in, I’ve got to reach their level, I can’t slack, I can’t take things easy, we’re not kids, this isn’t a game,_ Lance this is war.”]

Keith didn’t want to remember Lance’s words. He didn’t want to remember the pure hatred on his face as he charged across the training hall, gar alight with energy, his screams torn from his voice as the spar turned from training with teammates to fighting for his life. 

“You’re just like Shiro. You don’t believe that he’s out there, waiting for us. 

“And if you’re all going to give up, just like them, then I’m going to find someone who will help me.”


	28. A Want For Finality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance claimed victory in his duel against Gereen. But it is not over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's just a short chapter, but I found some old notes from when I was still working out the kinks of Pantheon's world building and such. I found uncompleted work, so I've given it a polish. So think of it more like a bonus chapter. Enjoy :3

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

The air was alight with jubilant cheers, the cries of the crowd tearing the tense silence into nothing but euphoria, bolstering all with justified hope that victory was theirs, with the Human on their side. They shouted and praised him, banging their fists to their chest as the Human pulled back his blade from under the chin of his foe; a victor who earned the right to revel in the glory. 

All tiredness abandoned him, the wounds of their spar nothing but dirt upon his skin, the ghosting touch of torn fabric and painted flesh. His left arm was left to rest upon his hip, to stop the movement of tearing skin between shoulder and neck, but there was no sign upon his lips to suggest the boy even registered the wound remained.   
Gereen can still taste blood on his lips, nectar-sweet, drawing from him a deep unquenchable thirst, released when he sunk his teeth into flesh, blinded by pain and the overpowering thought to fight the Human that burnt him. The Pawther’s chest still hurt from the electricity, his fur damp from sweat and blood alike, remnants of his armour parted to reveal his dusty, greying coat.   
The act of moving hurt, spasms ricocheting through his limbs as if the Human had staked claim to them, stealing Gereen’s will from him. But practised movement softened the tension, the muscles spent the energy and adrenaline until all there was, was an ache, and the odd shiver from his tail that wasn’t quite listening, quaking as it lay upon _Uris’s_ valley floor. 

The Human didn’t share the same restrictions from his wounds; no edge of weariness to his being as he turned about in the base of the valley, eyes not quite focused as he faced the crowds, taking in the sight of his supports, his true believers. And oddly, he turned once more to the Pawther that remained on the floor.   
He offered a hand. 

Gereen’s pride told him to ignore it, that it was nothing but a mockery to his failure. But it was the consequence he should’ve considered when he first declared to fight the Human, according to the age-old tradition of _Camseil’s_ laws. His loss meant more than just the fight, and with the mark of _Dasyure_ to scar him from this day on, he knew there was more he would be forced to let go of.   
His pride was one, willing his ears tall, his eyes to meet the one that bested him, surprised when the Human is able to pull him to his feet in one smooth pull, a childish smirk sitting proud on his lips. It brings forth a growl; swallowed before it escapes his lips. 

The Human wouldn’t have heard anyway. He was once more drawn to the exhilaration of the chants that resounds his name, growing in power when he holds his light-sword high above his head, answering their call with laughter of his own.   
They’re calling his name, calling out his victory, none ready to let their moods lighten from such a bloody and tense duel. 

“Lance!”  
It is Prime, who is the first to break from the crowd, caring not for the sight of his silliness as he rushes to his _Arenphine,_ and in one gracious bound, reaches his side and lifts him into the air; the pair of their faces lit up with childish delight, laughter shared and silenced as lips met and whispers were shared between them. 

Their happiness was one that struck a chill in the Pawther-Dull, his eyes already searching for his own partner that shared his bed and shared warmth in the dark. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting from them, mind not in the present to register if it was hope that brought forth the image of a sad, yet supportive smile and the gesture of a hand beckoning him to her side. 

Orvis was not looking his way.   
He could see her from where he stood, remaining as part of the crowd but separate, brow furrowed, lips moving quick as she spoke with her brother. The feathers of her spine were angled up, the snarl of her tone heard ever without Gereen able to hear her voice, her anger as clear as the sky in the way her tail refused to stay still.   
And as if Gereen had called out, Orvis turned her eyes to his, her glare only hardening.   
And then she was gone, marching with Ovule away from the Valley, up to the ship that rested on the brow of the slope. Unexpected, but not entirely undeserved. Childish and sulking when she wanted her own way and was not given it. 

But Orvis’s peace was not Gereen’s to contend with now, as he turned back to Prime and his Human in their gathered crowd of family. That ugly chill of jealous filled his chest once more, anger tainting the air with a crisp-brittle taste, the after-scent of electricity and fire.   
Eldar noticed, his cheer for the Human restrained to cast a glare in the other’s direction, the threat no longer hidden, the reminder that such cannot be, now that Gereen was defeated and Lance not his to claim.   
But that was no Gereen’s longing. He simply turned his face in direction of the retreating Arroyos, bearing his neck even when his fur stood on end and his pride roared in outrage.   
Gereen had no choice. He no longer had quarrel with his Prime. The Human had seen to that with his victory. 

“Congratulations champion,” came more praise in the form of the Human’s bodyguards. The Draora knocked heads with the smaller, lightly as not to hurt him, but full of respect and felicitations. Behind them, the trailing lines of the _Godolphin’s_ crew, and many more that wanted a chance to tell the victor how they were awed by his battle prowess.   
Gereen was nothing but a statue to wait his turn. To await his judgement. 

The Daratrine that had made it plainly obvious they didn’t like the _Rexx-Marth_ Sault, deliberately stood between him and the Human, even if there was no need for it.   
The Human noticed the deliberation, knuckles knocking their forehead with a grin free from the expected sneer. “Knock it off Uilt’xen. He won’t raise a hand against me again. The terms of our fight hold him to that.” At this, the Human stared at Gereen, as if waiting for his words to be refuted. They weren’t. 

“You didn’t take my life,” Gereen says, the first chance to bring to light the Human’s choice. Then, he berated himself, realising he had closed his only chance of escaping. Too late now. 

“And what would that serve, other than to dirty my blade, and lose a good solider to a petty argument,” the Human says with a shrug, slipping his shiftblade back to its sheath upon his hip, the handle hanging idle and unthreatening, just as the boy had always appeared. Weak. Unassuming.  
But Gereen now knew first-hand, that wasn’t to be the case. 

“It is still yours.”   
Pride spoke for him this time. If he was to see this through, he’d see it through to the end.   
He’d make it known he didn’t back down, that he stood fast and stood tall. 

_Awaiting judgement._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The group remained still, all eyes upon Gereen, with the exception of Eldar and Viridall, who shared a silent understanding at the meeting of their eyes. The younger pressed a hand to their shoulder, over the hidden mark of _Dasyure_ that was obsolete, now it’s brander was slain. Still, there were still some nights when the binding plagued him.  
Lance didn’t notice the exchange his eyes too busy looking upon Gereen. But no, this was a stranger, this wasn’t the Gereen he knew; arrogance and anger, pretentions and delusions. He wore humility well, his head still held high, reminiscent of a soldier he once was; no longer the rogue that would even stab his own crew in the back, all for sake of survival. But Lance had never been sure if that was Gereen too, or just the result of a spiral of rumours that got out of hand too-quick, too-fast.  
When Eldar spoke of him, it had been with the bitter-after taste of anger, tried and worn through time weathered. But under all that was the same respect Lance would begrudgingly admit Keith deserved too, before he got to know him. Before he fell in love with him.

Perhaps Gereen was like Keith in that way too. Misunderstood, only knowing to strike out in anger. It drew the wrong crowds to him, but wouldn’t that be the fault of others who let him down. 

_{Aww Lance, don’t tell me you pity him. Is he just like you? Misunderstood and pushed aside by the Paladins? Do you see yourself in this weak, broken Culm?}_

The words were blocked out with pain upon his skin, found with biting nails and the curling fingers of Eldar, who sensed his _Arenphine’s_ discomfort, yet didn’t know why. With no chance to explain, Lance simply let his hand slot into Eldar’s letting the velvet of his fur ground him. _Anadón was dead, Anadón was dead, Anadón was dead, Anadón was—_

The silence tests Gereen’s patience, even as he waits for something that Lance can’t give. He can’t: he doesn’t know what it is that has to be given.   
If this is still a part of the duel, then the boy is sure he’s done his part. They have fought, he won, claimed with Gereen surrendering and now it was all behind them. They could focus on battle plans, without the doubt of teamwork and not have to worry about dissonance between the crews as Roamer instructed them to play their part.   
But with Gereen waiting, and the slow quiet drawing in, Lance understood there was more to be said before agreements could be made. He looked to Eldar, yet to withdraw his hand from where Lance’s wound with his. “He is waiting your judgement,” the Pawther said simply, but the underlying tone of apprehension was clear on the tongue; stale-air, biting, the cold of night that stings the boy’s nose, threatening to draw tears from his eyes.   
_Judgement._ But Lance had given it, had he not, when he pulled back his blade and offered his hand. 

“Gereen, I don’t want to kill you—” Lance began, but Eldar’s press of fingers on his palm stopped him, his words quietening as he asked a voiceless question to his _Arenphine._ “That’s not what he is offering,” he said. The older’s ears flicked to show the unsettling coil in his gut, not sure what to make of the display from the old guard. There was no malice within his kin, nothing that would make him or his heart-mate raise their walls and raise their weapons to defend against him. Gereen wouldn’t. Not as he knelt, trying to accept the truth of his defeat, and to accept the consequences of losing the duel of _Camseil._  
For the sake of Lance sparing his life, Gereen was now duty-bound to serve him. 

“What? Why?” The Human asked, his voice telling to an emotion that said he didn’t approve. The closest gathered turned face, knowing the matter not there’s to intrude upon. Viridall’s gaze remained, at a loss for words to the reaction, having expected Lance to lay claim to Gereen the moment his blade touched his neck. He thought the boy to mark his foe’s face, where the mark couldn’t be hidden. But as he always did, the Human remained unpredictable. 

“You spared him, when Death could’ve easily been given. You chose to claim his life, rather than to end it.”   
“So now what, he’s to become my _slave?”_

Those were the conditions Lance offered, but he didn’t think that they would be used on Gereen should he fall. And now he had, it was Lance who held leash and whip.   
Gereen was at his mercy. He remained knelt, head bent to bare his neck, trying to control the nervous twitch of his own tail, the way his ears wanted to flatten to his head as the silence loomed and they were once again the focus of all.   
Eldar tries to explain to his _Arenphine_ the way of Camseil, but the logic of Old Pantheon isn’t that the boy is all too willing to accept. “It’s not right. I only put the risk of my freedom on the line, for the sake of the peace talks. And now you’re telling me because I refuse to kill him, he has no choice but to listen to my every whim and want?”   
“You didn’t care for freedom when you were the one offering.”  
“Yes, because I was offering my _own_ freedom. Not his.” 

Eldar can see Lance won’t except if he thinks it is his doing that tied Gereen to him. But no, it has always been part of tradition. Viridall is the one to tell him so, pulling the strap of his blade’s sheath to show the deep scar, healed ugly and warped. _“Dasyure_ binds us to the victor. We can never rise above them. When they spare our lives, we our bound by the honour of our family, and the duty as a Pawthen, to follow our better.”   
Viridall gestures to Lance. “You are his better.” 

Gereen cannot bear it any longer, and allows himself to raise his head. No one is looking to him, but his words that changes. “Your judgement remains,” he says, voice tight, his ears pulled back in fear, eyes murky grey as they stared up at Lance. “If you decline my servitude… If you have no use for me, then that is your choice.”   
“And what is the cost of that?” The Human said slowly, detecting not was all black and white, when it came to ancient battle rites. “To you: _none.”_  
“And to you?” Gereen’s voice failed him; the truth of fear shown as he awaits judgement. Anger bares itself in the scent of brine, copper and heavy herbs, a sour storminess that falls like prickles on the tongue. Lance can taste it, just as he can taste the emotions of those around him, Eldar’s most of all. It was their bond that gave him such an ability; the sharing of heart and soul.   
It was their bond that allowed Lance to taste the ice in Gereen’s heart, the burnt ash-feverish-electric anxiety as he faces the execution block for no means other than his own fault. 

“You mean you die or you serve me.” 

Gereen just bowed his head, ignoring the tremor that rattled his body without permission, the salt-dry taste of fear, yellow flowers and sour fruit, mould in the summer sun, the stench of water-logged earth and the dying of drowned plants.   
Those with keener senses drew back, sneers replacing their mild curiosity, taking delight in the Pawther’s fear of imminent death. They knew he was only for show, knew the mask he wore was nothing more than a child’s toy in which to hide behind, like a pup that peers from behind his mother’s skirt. 

Lance looked upon him with pity. This alien no longer scared him, knowing he would not attack, no matter how much Gereen wished himself to do so. Because no matter how much he was detestable or sly, he was once a Pantheon soldier, one that remained loyal. He had fought for _Tuatha_ after all, the secret of its true meaning not known to the crew, and still he risked his life to protect it.   
Gereen was undeniably loyal, if no longer to a Prime who refused his title, then to the traditions of the home he sorely missed. Gereen would not rise to fight his better. 

It is the bond that allows Lance to see what the Pawther conceals in silence.   
And with truth, he knows his own duty, bound by the acceptance of the duel. 

“Then stand.” 

_This was it,_ Gereen thought weakly, mind telling him no, but he stood to the command of his better. Everyone watched, baited breath, their want for blood suffocating as Gereen bared his neck and wished not to feel the blade pierce his skin. _Let it be swift, let it be swift, let it be swift—_

Absolute victory came with the cut of Lance’s sword.


	29. A Want For No Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time for the battle of Genwar draws near.

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris

_“Hail Valion.”_

Lance nodded to the Alien that announced his arrival, not bothering to play into any more of their desired formal-theatrics. Not when the only one’s present were his friends and familiar faces of the alliance leaders. Or, correctly: the alliance counsellors.   
Because now, Lance was Leader of the Solnha. Or, well—

“So, _Valion,_ you’ve finally decided to join us?”   
“Must you call me that?” Lance sighed, waving a hand at the younger twin in hopes to silence him. Kenmare ignored the gesture, his shit-eating grin telling everyone he wasn’t done pulling his Human-brother’s leg. “Oh no, not appreciating your new title then, _oh mighty leader.”_ Lance threw Kenmare a glare, one reminiscent to those he’d warned Gereen with before dealing bloody battle.   
But whereas the Pawther had recognised a predator closing in on its hunt, Kenmare just saw a kitten with its claws out, tangled in a ball of string.   
He laughed. 

“Knock it off Kenmare, I’m not some leader—”  
“No, you’re just the figurehead; the face, the voice and name that will be spoken when people talk of the Solnha Alliance.” The boy turned to glare at Rayon, who was sat a way aways from the main table of congregated aliens. He had settled himself nicely against the wall, his feet kicked up onto an empty chair and looked like he was deciding on whether to have a nap or not.   
Of course, it wasn’t like the discussion of _Genwar’s_ plans were all that important or anything. 

The Draora saw Lance’s look turned on him, and feigned innocence. “What? What did I say?”  
“Only the truth,” Eldar interrupted, before his lover could raise his voice and scold the twins. He appeared behind Lance who still hovered somewhere near the doorway. He pressed in close, a hand on the boy’s hip, a smile as Lance leaned into him, tilting his head to bare his neck. The smell of sparking electricity and the clinical after-taste of Tho’xemae’s ward fizzled into summer flowers as Eldar scented his nose upon his lover, keeping the motion short in respect for the gathered audience, but enough that he reaffirmed his own trace on the boy, inhaling him before they made their way closer to the table. 

“How are you? You’re no longer in pain?” Eldar asks, voice low as they sit side by side, the instinct to protect his mate strong even when he couldn’t detect a smell to suggest Lance wasn’t feeling his usual cheery self. There was the lingering of anticipation, but that was to be expected, what with the boy’s new role and the task of reclaiming _Genwar_ waiting to be discussed and set in motion before the set of _Uris’s_ star.   
“Yes Eldar, _I’m fine,”_ Lance hissed, a bite to his words but no real spite laced between the syllables.   
Tho’xemae had patched him up as well as he could after his fight with Gereen, being quite vocal about the boy’s stupidity to let the Pawther latch his maw onto him – even if the sacrifice to his arm had won him to fight.   
The bite would scar, as had Ovule’s; the two of them weaving into white flesh that wouldn’t tan in the sun. Surprisingly, Lance wasn’t concerned. In fact, he had admired the interlinking crescent moon shapes, knowing that they were the trophies to his victories. 

_He had won._

Even if the scars did not affect the boy’s confidence, the wound underneath had greater reach than both he and Tho’ anticipated. When the rush of adrenaline withdrew its comfort, pain, like never before had took hold of the boy and pulled him down into the dark; painful, unpeaceful dark that left him hot and cold, throat dry and eyes streaming, body thrashing against the hold but serving only to hurt himself more.   
Tho’xemae was forced to delve into Lance’s limited _Eleiryian_ supply, to numb the agony and speed recovery. It helped, considerably.  
But even with the old Altean concoction, Lance’s wound was not completely healed. His arm ached when he moved it, and raising his limb too high would cause the pain to intensify, bringing black spots to his vision and a rasping to his breath.   
But it was only a wound and all wounds heal over time. 

But time was something they did not have.   
The battle to free _Genwar_ was fast approaching.

“Welcome Valion, it is good to see you doing well,” Roamer said from her place at the table, not making a sign that she felt the force of the ghosting glare that made it to Lance’s eyes. Yet not his lips, that pulled back in a smile and thanked her for her concern. It wouldn’t do to remain annoyed at Roamer for being polite – even if Lance’s predicament was partially her fault. Okay, almost _entirely_ her fault.   
Because it had been the Hyaline who had announced it, mere moments from when Lance claimed victory from Gereen and stood to the cheering of the crowds. _“See him now, warriors of Solnha. See your leader who has united us, as one, to face the Galra and to face those that want to enslave us, our homes and our families.”_  
Lance hadn’t been able to argue, as the energy of the alliance filled the valley, his name thundering loud, loud enough for the heavens to hear. _“He came to us from the stars, blessed by the star-children and their strength. See him fight and join him!”_  
All at once, they had cheered his name, his title, his glory as if it was not Gereen that knelt, bleeding and defeated, but Zarkon himself, struck by Lance’s sword and awaiting only death to free him from his humility. 

Even when Lance denied his strength, claimed there were many better suited to take charge, be it in name only or not. He didn’t agree.  
But the boy was the only one that thought that way. 

_“You_ are _strong, and the only reasonable choice to lead, whether you deny it or not,”_ Eldar had told him from his side, not needing to speak in private when the sheer volume around them stemmed any chance of their words being overheard by another. _“You cannot say that it was not you who was the one to unite us against the Galra. You showed us our potential, what we could become. Had you not, we would have remained simply as survivors during a war we thought ourselves separate from.”_  
 _“You were the one that they came to see,”_ Roamer said, joining Human and Pawther alike. 

_“All of them that are not Solnha, who heard of the Human that wouldn’t stand the Galra’s tyranny, they came for you. And you’ve shown them strength, will and a stubbornness in the face of certain defeat to rival even that of our enemies. They believe with you, we can win. And they need to believe Lance, if not, what are we all fighting for?”_  
And Lance, numb to thought that could counter her words, had been swept up in the jubilance that practically crowned him leader. He hadn’t the words that would free him from the chains set around his neck, tying him to the responsibility of the Solnha’s lives. 

_But were they really chains?_  
Lance had always had this responsibility with him, be it the lives of his siblings on earth when Mamá left him in charge, when he met Blue and took her and the Paladins into space, long before he accepted the mantle of Paladin and the heaviness that weighed upon his shoulders. 

When he left them, abandoned them for the stars and chance to give the team a fighting chance without him, Lance had never planned on giving up the fight, of retiring to the shadows to live a life of peace. _No,_ he had planned to continue the battle, to take the fight to Zarkon if he had to, to move through the shadows like the Marmora, strike hard, strike fast and retreat before the Galra knew who hit them.   
But such plans were abandoned when Eldar invited him into the _Godolphin’s_ crew, and he found his family to fight beside; to fight for, as well as those that he left.

The Solnha found him and gave him a home. They gave him the mantle, but it was Gereen who named him Valion; a Pawthen term given to war heroes and guardians of Old Pantheon.   
It was a fitting title for a veteran knight in his late years of conquest. But Lance only had his three years of space battle in experience, no great victories to write home about, neither his lingering skill of sniper and combatant, adept at best, when it came to use of his shiftblade. 

Gereen, defeated and foul-tempered had offered the title out of deservingly earnt respect. Thankfully, the Pawther’s false sense of pride had been abandoned, leaving the soldier as he was before the fall of Pantheon.   
He sat opposite the Hyaline, one hand unconsciously laid across the wound on his arm; the _mark of Dasyure_ that Lance left upon him, instead of claiming his life. The duel of _Camseil_ may have been only been half a day since _Uris’s_ dawn, but in the time since blood was drawn and hands shaken, things had changed. Irrefutably but welcoming. 

Gereen remains indifferent, for the most part, but the subtle changes are like a breath of fresh air, chaste but flavourful to palettes once poisoned by lies and his twisted humour.   
Everyone noticed the changes: The reply to greetings without the reply of an equivocal answer. Grounding touches when hands met, more of a willingness to divulge information, when others ask of him. When he forgets himself for a moment, yet snide words hold more sarcasm; less barb and bite.   
His edges are all still there, they aren’t something the Pawther can abandon so quickly, but now they're just, rounded. Sanded down. Smoother.

It all came from the cut of Lance’s sword, swift yet light, leaving nothing but a nick in the Pawther’s skin; the shallowest cut of the duel.   
There and then, Lance declared that if Gereen wished to serve as his ancestors had, then it was for the sake of the Solnha. Gereen accepted, apologised, and bowed before the one that he owed his life, whether the Human would accept it or not. 

_“Thank you, Valion.”_  
 _“Valion?”_ Because for Lance, he had never heard that word before and now one Gereen gave to him, as a sign of acceptance of his new status. _“You are strong,”_ the pawthen-dull had explained afterwards, tone soft like he was educating a child. It took Lance by surprise. _“Not just in battle, in the strength you’ve shown and your skill that bested me. But your will is strong too. Unbreakable.”_

_“I can see why Eldar cherishes you.”_

And Lance— Lance had just beamed at him, expression filled with barely-restrained joy at the understanding that the two were no longer enemies. Not friends, not yet, maybe never to be, but certainly no longer enemies.   
_“You know, you being nice is something I’m going to have to get used to.”_ And with that he had clapped Gereen on the arm, turned his back, and left the ring and its sole occupant; speechless and confused. 

After that, as if the entire fight was the flip of a switch that had been stuck for too long, no one was angered or threatened by the Pawther anymore. The Draora twins seemed to take that further and liked to address Gereen as _“yinvard”_ – yellow-bellied – as if that would get a rise from him, and turn him back into the sour, irritated fox that gave out death threats as easily as he was saying hello.   
All it did was give Gereen a chance to scowl back at them, the name taken on the chin and chewed out into colourful phrases that saw Viridall and Eldar laughing like school children and a firm tone denying to translate when asked.

Gereen seemed both amused and annoyed by the fact that his insults continued to fall upon deaf ears. His snarks were all easily rebutted and questions of strength taken up on rather than seen as a threat.   
It seemed in the time that Lance was held captive by the _Godolphin’s_ resident medic, Gereen had danced toe-to-toe with Uilt’xen in the sparring ring. Even with their tight lips, it was clear the results. Uilt’xen’s smirk probably wouldn’t disappear inside this week. 

It would be a while before Gereen fully accepted the fact that he was no longer on the fringes, and that his words wouldn’t hold the same weight as before, and maybe then he could finally settle.   
They’d finally be comrades; bound together tight, as Solnha, as _family._

“Are we all in attending?” Fellfrir asked, the tone of her voice suggesting impatience. She wasn’t one for sitting around, but the unanimous decision for _Genwar’s_ plan still fell to the agreement of Roamer’s strategy. And ultimately, Valion’s approval.   
They were all there to learn of their roles, and that could only be done with clean and calm discussion. 

“Iefyr has gone with Dart, and Leonel is just overseeing division of supplies from my ship, but other than those three, the ones needed to be present currently are,” Roamer replied, taking the main focus of those gathered.   
Rayon sat up from where he had been slouching, nudging Kenmare with his foot to pull his brother’s attention, from where he and Uilt’xen had been whispering like students in the back of class.   
Everyone else sat ready to listen, but Lance’s mind caught on the notion of the two absence aliens. 

“Where have they gone?”   
“Gone?”   
“Iefyr and Dart. You didn’t say where they were. So, where are they?” Perhaps to Lance it was the simplicity of curiosity that he called out his question, but to the others who saw him as _Sault_ and ultimately in charge— _whether Lance agreed to this or not—_ … well, they worried for his reaction to learning the truth. It was Gereen who offered it.   
“They’re tracking down Orvis and Ovule,” he said bluntly, tone and scent providing more information than perhaps he chose to willingly give. “After our fight, the pair got unnecessarily angry. They denounced their ties to the alliance, took a ship and left.”   
“Good riddance,” the Human muttered, slumping against Eldar for comfort. But that wasn’t the most appropriate of reactions, so the boy let himself continue. 

“Did they take anything of importance? Supplies? Weapons?”   
“Other than the spacecraft, no, nothing noticeably missing. Except Garecht. We’re unsure if he went with them or if he’s been killed. No one has seen him since before the duel.” Lance nodded, guilt, relief and fear churning in his chest, his scent souring.   
The three Pawthers noticed and exchanged looks. 

“The Solnha are too great for their absence to leave any lasting damage on our strength,” Viridall began, but a raised hand gave him reason to hesitate.   
“No, that’s not it. The siblings are selfish by nature, practically children by any standard. When Gereen could not have me, Orvis was like a toddler who had been told to share. Ovule’s tantrum to me defying him was predictable, despite myself being caught off guard.” The Human’s mutterings brought questions – worry to Eldar as Lance rubbed the wound upon his neck. But before anyone could ask him for meanings of his words, Lance turned the conversation back onto the matter at hand. 

“How long has it been since they left? Do we know where were they are heading?”  
“Two Varga past. The ships lost their signal when they entered the atmosphere of _Venris.”_  
 _“Venris?_ In the _Leuen_ system? And they’ve yet to resurface?”   
Roamer shook her head. “That’s the point. Even if they’ve left the planet already, we’ll have no clue until Dart and Iefyr can reach the system and do a planet-wide scan. We believe they’ve dismantled their communication line, or at least exposed their ship to the planet’s volatile atmosphere long enough for it to damage any transmission feeds me may have been able to use to track them.”  
“No, there’s no need to stay there that long to do as such,” Lance sighed, a hand on his forehead to push away memories as his own escape filled his mind, remembering how he could alter the module from the cockpit. Even though it was months past, the memory was still clear in his mind, as were the emotions he felt when he had abandoned the team before they could abandon him.   
_Fear, anger, hurt, hatred._

“They need only sabotage the internal comms drive through use of fake emissions to supersede the data. That way they still have a functioning system to be detected by those that they _want_ to find them.” The boy rubbed his brow, hoping that this stunt of the Arroyen was simply _extreme_ sulking.   
Problem was, he didn’t quite believe himself. 

“So, you’re saying that they might not have even gone to _Venris?”_ Roamer asks, her tone incredulous, not having considered the possibility despite their doubled brain power.   
“They might not have even left this system.” 

The boy turned to the alien that still stood at the door, the one that had announced his arrival. “Find Ygrainne. Have her call them back to us, immediately. We need Dart and Iefyr here ready for departure to _Caesurae_ when the time comes.”   
“Yes Valion.” 

“But why? Surely, we want to track Orvis and Ovule down? They could betray us to the Galra—”  
“Those two are as predictable as the sun’s cycle. If they’ve been gone for two Varga, then they’ve already betrayed us,” Lance growled, anger not aimed for the lavender Pawther that reeled back from the biting tone.   
“There’s no hope to catching up to them, but we can stop the other two from falling into a trap. All we can hope is that the Galra are not in a listening mood. Let the Arroyo’s tongues be cut and their deaths swift.” 

The human’s anger struck the silence like the crack of a whip; harsh, powerful and striking. 

The council looked between one another, smiles upon some faces – _Fellfrir, Matriarch, Rayon, Cersaelk, Uilt’xen. This_ was the Valion they saw defeat Gereen. _This_ was the Valion they wanted to lead them.  
The others remained unnerved— _Viridall, Leonel, Kenmare, Roamer and Irian._ The anger was new to them, a shock to be faced with thunder before the rain of the coming storm. It was disconcerting, even if the boy’s anger was held in tongue only.   
Eldar was the only one who remained unchanged, yet he did not hide the sadness in his eyes, the pain of looking to his _Arenphine_ who felt anger and hate so strongly that it had changed him. Only for a moment, _but it had changed him._

With a deep breath and a hand to dry-wash his face, Lance tried to ground himself before his anger took him. He had been expecting betrayal, but had hoped whoever dealt such towards the Solnha would be caught and dealt with before consequences could arise.   
Right now, there was nothing to be done but focus on the coming battle, yet fear wasn’t an emotion that refused the spotlight so easy. Hidden behind a mask of anger, it filled the room with electric-tension, the taut of saltwater-soaked rope, the rust of nails weather-worn as they are driven into flesh—

“Lance?”   
Eldar reaches out for the boy, taking his hand within his own, entwining fingers to let the soft touch of velvet fur ground him, pulling him back from the precipice of anger.

Lance could sense his worry through the light touch, the gentle press of his cheek on the boy’s shoulder, no weight leant on him despite it being his right shoulder, which bore no scars. Perhaps distance remained as Eldar gauged Lance’s mood. The boy sighed. 

“I’m fine _Arenphine._ You needn’t worry.”   
“I can’t help it. It’s my duty,” the other whispered back, moving their hands, still tight in one another’s, fingers gentle yet firm as he presses his touch to the boy’s thigh. “You know I will always worry.”   
“A fruitless endeavour,” Lance sighed again, tiredness pulling at him as _Eleiryian_ continued to settle in his body. He leaned in close to his lover, head tilted back to rest upon his shoulder, pointedly ignoring the desire to close his eyes. Instead, he glanced up, whiskey-gold to cinnamon-honey. “But appreciated regardless.”   
Lips met briefly, in the moment all other eyes remained averted, allowing space for Prime to calm his lover before his true anger could be unleashed. They gave silence to the pair until the tension settled. 

“If it is true,” Irian began, not ready to abandon discussion on the subject of the Arroyen, his voice quiet as he remained weary, eyeing the Human, and the Pawther that held his hand, holding back his anger.   
“Then what do we do of them?”   
“Nothing,” Lance replied. His word remained light and as nonchalant as he could muster, the grip of Eldar’s hand keeping his mind in the present. Anger was locked back in the play pen, to battle it out with tiredness. 

“We have neither the time, nor the ships to give chase. _Genwar’s_ eclipse is fast approaching. Even if they reach the Galra and tell them of our plans, there is no time for our enemy to call for backup. The exacts of the plan aren’t known either, which means anything the _culm_ say, they have nothing solid to provide in reply.”   
“Wishful thinking,” Uilt'xen grumbled. Lance turned eyes to her. “Maybe, but it’s the only focus I’ll allow myself to give. Their betrayal does not change the fact that the Hycis remain imprisoned nor that the eclipse that befalls tonight gives the perfect opportunity to strike. It doesn’t matter about the orbiting defences radioing out for support – there’s no time for it to reach them. But the orbiting base and the ground force will be silent to one another. It’s the best chance we’ve got.”  
The Matriarch sat forward in her chair, knuckled linked to let her chin rest upon them. “It sounds like you’ve been prepared for this,” she said. The flicker of her eyes wasn’t missed, reciprocated in turned cheeks and scowls of varying temperature. None looked to who she accused.   
Except Valion. “Yes, it’s true that I assumed that it would be Gereen who would be the first stab me in the back.” Gereen glowered from his chair but said nothing. “But the _‘who’_ that I prepared to betrayed us changes little in our plans. With nothing more than the knowledge that they’re exempt from our assistance in the future, little is left to discuss on the matter.”   
The aliens nodded their head in quiet agreement, a unanimous decision following to put aside concerns for the Arroyen and listen to Roamer’s strategy and start putting the plan into actions. 

Suddenly, the door to the impromptu council chamber opened, the Hyaline’s words abruptly cut as attention was pulled from her once more. Lance was expecting to see the alien he had sent away, to call for Iefyr and Dart. But the time for him to return was too soon to be so.   
Instead the doorway held another; a Vhoadan; pearl white and bruising red that struck colour across his bare chest and bulbous, small in comparison to Fellfrir’s. She looked to the newcomer with an almost bored expression. “Leonel, you’re late.”   
“Sorry, I guess it took me longer than I thought,” Leonel replied. He didn’t sound sorry. He didn’t look sorry either, as he sauntered into the room, a smirk to his kin, replied in kind to the twins – _ignored_ – and to Lance. 

_“Gornonyyn,_ Valion,” he greeted cheerfully, his mandibles clicking together, toes clacking on the argentums floor as he approached. “I don’t think we’ve had the chance to meet.”   
“You’ll have to excuse me, I have been quite busy,” Lance jokes smoothly, falling into the easy tandem of conversation that Leonel brings, even if his arrival is swift and surprising. It’s pleasant; quite different to the earlier talk of betrayal that left the room heavy and uninviting.   
Leonel broke that, and by his playful tone, he wasn’t going to let it settle back again.   
“Well hopefully you’re not too busy as of yet. I hear things will only being getting busier, now that you’re declaring war against the Galra.”   
“We’ve been at war with the Galra for Deca-Phoeb. They are just a little slow on the uptake.” 

Leonel’s grin says he approves of Lance’s wit, one of his eyes flashing a wink before moving around the other side of the table, to irritate Uilt’xen, who had gone back to snogging with Kenmare while Rayon was busy pulling faces behind their backs.   
It was reassuring to realise that imminent battle didn’t really concern the younger four, all of whom that would be spear-pointing the ground control set to infiltrate _Genwar’s_ mining facility and rescue the trapped Hycis.   
Their childishness didn’t instil confidence in the council however, who had turned to Roamer with questions concerning her selection choice. “Don’t worry. Valion is leading them. I have complete confidence he’ll be able to keep the children in line.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Space, near the planet Solror

It wasn’t long since the passing of _Solror’s_ outer regions did Eldar once again find himself in one of his favourite spots; casually leant against the door to the _Godolphin’s_ newly-designated training hall, where he could admire the fluidity of his _Arenphine’s_ movements, as Lance nimbly darted out the reach, away from one of Leonel’s spines –wrapped tight in Dzo-weave to stop himself accidently poisoning his spar-mates– a laugh in his voice as he darts back in, and whaps his kali stick on the back of Leonel’s legs. It’s only light in comparison to the boy’s full strength, but still, the blow knocks the Vhoadan forward in laughter, stumbling into Kenmare who holds them both up before they can tumble to the floor in a mess of limbs.   
“You know, I have to agree with Uilt’xen. It’s fun to watch you being beat by Valion rather than me. Something about you underestimating him, and him being a sneaky little _Dahast_ that won’t stay still long enough for you to land a decent hit.” The last bit is thrown at Lance, who just grins. What Kenmare said isn’t true; he’s supporting his own marks, on his hands, his arms and back, where the others have found chinks in his defence and landed blows.   
Eldar would tell Lance he didn’t approve – and Lance would argue he _is_ wearing armour, _this time –_ but for now he was happy listening to the laughter of the Human that had found himself a distraction from the looming threat that lies ahead.   
Eldar wouldn’t take that away from him for the sake of his worry. 

“Seeing the fight that you put up against Rayon, I was thinking you were going to at least sweep me off my feet more than once,” Lance teases, moving to the group where Rayon has Leonel in a headlock. It doesn’t stop him from challenging Lance again. “Come on little Human, let us spar again.”   
“Nah, you missed your chance. I’m still holding the winning streak.”   
“Not for long,” and suddenly Lance is upside down, Uilt’xen holding him so with a simple grip on his ankle, cackling. Lance would deny the scream of course, but no one has time to tease him for long when Leonel sees his opportunity, using his spines to flip Rayon, tumbling into the other three and now they’re all on the floor. 

It was Valion’s choice when he called the four of them away from battle preparations, as apart of their own measures for their infiltration mission. With the Draora, the Human and the Daratrine already familiar with one another and their fighting styles, the upcoming mission was simply another raid against the Galra – something they had done countless times together, side by side.  
Leonel was a factor not before introduced into their calculations.   
It wasn’t they were disapproving of belief towards Roamer’s word, but sparring would give a chance to wash away any doubts they felt about fighting beside someone who, to all degrees, was still a stranger. It wasn’t like they doubted Roamer, but plans on paper don’t always relate to reality as perfectly as planned.

But it was clear with the time spent sparring, with Leonel showing off his skills against all four of them, that he was indeed a good choice to merge with their rag-tag team. Even without prior knowledge of the other’s skills and experiences, he was quick to match them in the sparring ring, beating Kenmare and Uilt’xen, holding his own against Rayon, and continually duped by Lance between blows given as well as taken.

“I wouldn’t hold it personally,” the girl says when Kenmare whines, his neck hurting where Lance had taken him across his shell with his bo staff. “It’s that weapon Prime gave him that holds all the real skill. Take that away and you’re only left with a human.”   
“A human that unified and leads the largest alliance force this side of anywhere,” Eldar adds, drawing attention to himself where he still remains in the doorway. The others offer their _Sault_ a hand under their chin in salute, whilst Lance pulls himself from the tangle, running to his lover’s side jumping up to be caught in Eldar’s arms. His arms wrap deftly around Eldar’s back, hands settling firmly between his shoulder blades, baring his neck submissively as he rests his forehead on his lover’s shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the universe. And to the two of them, it is. 

The euphoria of ocean-blue and glittering-sun is infectious as Eldar closes his eyes and sinks into the scent of his lover, the gentle whispering of _“eirla fulthaine”_ as soft as bird wings against the boy’s sun-kissed skin. It doesn’t envelope Lance entirely; the sharp sting of rock edges, the crisp to cold mountain spring, but if Lance won’t dwell then Eldar won’t either. _Distraction,_ his mind supplies and that’s enough for their moment to continue, even if Uilt’xen is making kissy noises, and the boys join in with teasing remarks.  
Lance does that thing where he raises his middle finger, and with a glint in his eyes that would make anyone uneasy, pulls Eldar in for a loud and heavy kiss, all wet and wanton that calls desires deep from Eldar’s gut and he’s practically choking on his own scent of lust as it envelopes the room.   
The other four snort in irritation, but they don’t mean it. Not really.   
But neither less, they pull the spotlight from Prime and his lover, deciding that it will be more entertaining for them to return to their playfighting. 

“That’ll teach them,” Lance grins, pushing himself up on his toes, the brush of his lips against Eldar’s, broken with the curling smile that lights up his features. “That’s naughty, love.”   
Lance just shrugs. “The kids need to be punished sometimes. If it means us too being a bit hands on in front of them, well,” Lance grins, that glint in his eyes sparking, “I’m not complaining.” And, they’re kissing again, and Eldar would love to say that Lance can make his mind go blank just with that, but this time, it’s not. It’s his words. 

“Eldar?” —And even though it’s Lance’s words, they may not have been meant in the way that makes Eldar’s heart sore and the instinct to protect his mate claw at his insides— “Eldar? You okay?” —because to Lance, maybe it does mean nothing, but not to Eldar, not to him who wants this with his _Arenphine,_ who wants this to be—  
Eldar catches himself, pulling back from the sounds of bubbling laughter, child-like and innocent. He leans in again, all found arms curling around his lover, wishing he could never let go, content to remain in this perfect little moment for now and eternity. “I’m fine Lance. You just keep reminding me how much I love you.”   
And Lance, all whiskey-gold sunshine, stars-on-the-water beauty, feather-light love, presses lips to his _Arenphine._ “I love you too.” 

Times for kissing and professing love is short lived however, as the sound of Ygrainne calling Lance to the Bridge separates them. Eldar wants to be childish, he wants to ignore it, but before he can, a ship-wide transmission lights up the various holo-screens around the ship. It’s from Dart, who has been pulling at his ears as Foci tries to “help” in their process of readying the ships. 

“I thought you would come find me _after_ you’d finished organising the crew down in the hangar?” Lance asks, dismissing himself from the four still training, telling them to eat and rest up before they missed their chance to do so.   
“I left Dart in charge, and told him to get Foci to help him. They were getting a bit fidgety, and with the extra bodies onboard, I thought it best to keep them from crawling through the halls. Bumi is enough trouble, now that the entire tribe is working on our ships as we speak.”   
“I bet Dart’s been pulling at his ears since you left.”   
“Enough that he’s summoned me back to the hangar. And I thought I was _Sault_ of this ship.”   
“Doesn’t mean you’re above helping,” Lance chides, flicking his lover’s nose before dancing off out of reach. Eldar throws a curse, and a farewell, before entering the hangar to see what destruction has got Dart at the end of his tether. 

When Eldar manages to pull himself away from the chaos, content that the Trigamon were _not_ going to blow up the ship as they worked on the ship that would be taking Lance as his team to _Genwar,_ he heads to the bridge, searching once again for his lover. It’s childish, like a kit that cannot shake their unsettledness until they find their mother. But Eldar will allow himself to feel as such, knowing where they are heading and the weight that grows steadily heavier with every tick passing. 

Lance is not on the Bridge. 

“Where?” Eldar asks Brea, but she doesn’t know, she’s only just got here herself. “Maybe he went to see Tho’. I know he wanted something to help him sleep before the fight so maybe he’s down in the med-bay.” Eldar thanks Brea and then he’s leaving. If Lance wanted to sleep, then that was fine, Eldar wouldn’t stop him, but he wanted to ask him, about earlier, about what he said—

Eldar doesn’t bother heading to the med-bay. If Lance wanted to sleep, he’d do it in their nest, induced or not, preferring the familiar smells of one another to the chemically-clean medical ward. So, it is to their chambers Eldar heads and that is where he finds his lover. Although, not as the Pawther expected.   
The bed is empty, the blankets untouched. The lights are off, but Lance still remains, knees tucked to his chin as he takes space on the far end of the sofa, having shed almost all his clothes in preparation to sleep. But something had stopped him, and drawn him to the far side of the room, away from the nest of blankets that will let him quiet his mind. 

Eldar stopped in his approach towards the spacious alcove, peering into the gloom fought only by the glow of stars the filter in through the unshaded windows and the striking light of a hand held holo-screen Lance faces, held between limp hands. Contradictory, with the stony expression that takes his eyes and seals away any hopes of a smile. 

The sight isn’t what stops Eldar. It’s Lance’s scent. 

Although it remains innately _him,_ where there was the usual comfort of summer-rain and wheat grass, all soft and inviting, now it’s nothing but the building of a storm, the biting of snow and the silence of eternal loneliness that pulls at Lance’s being until he is blue and black and _nothing._  
The emotions wafting off of him are different too, Eldar realises, because he's sure that right now he would’ve thought his lover would be smelling of nervousness, fear perhaps and that strange, brave-faced confidence that he wears when he doesn’t want anyone to realise the truth—  
But Lance doesn’t. 

He smells like, bitterness, _anger,_ maybe grief: all black-nightmare-pain behind his mask, kept together with white threads, strong as piano wire yet fraying as the cracks stretch their reach, allowing the real emotions to fall through.   
Eldar doesn’t miss the shadowing scent of distant amusement.

The Pawther stared, captured by the mixing emotions upon his lover’s face; torn between watching on in silence, and the determination to take away whatever ailed him. To see him smile.  
This was not the first time Eldar had found Lance hidden away in the dark, the alcove somewhere he returned to frequently, with or without others and many data screens to review recent reports of missions or studying the plans for more assaults for Roamer, questioning tradelines, communication, tracking alliances and Galra activity.   
Lance had claimed it necessary. He had thrown himself into a role Eldar thought simply a title for the alliance, an idea for the numbers, a face to a name that they could support. He didn’t realise how much that Lance had changed in the few Varga between being his Lover, and now the Leader of the Alliance.   
He didn’t realise how much the boy would change, how fitting the role was for him, how important it was for him to be Valion…

Between the meeting with the council and the moment of departure from _Uris,_ Lance had ordered for all of the crews to upgrade their armour with whatever could be salvaged from the Trigamons spare parts. He had them outfitted with whatever protective coverings they could get their hands on and a cache of emergency _Eyre,_ in case they, or their comrades, were injured in the fight – a viable plan as Tho’xemae had been successful in acquiring its recipe after a reverse breakdown of the liquid.   
And of course, it was by Lance’s order that the infiltration unit to train with one another, himself included.

The idea of sending Lance down to the surface and not being there to guard his _Arenphine_ didn’t settle well with Eldar, despite knowing it was for the sake of victory. But Lance accepted it and words were nothing but empty air between them when Eldar told him it shouldn’t be so, that Roamer made a mistake, that it wasn’t—  
 _“Roamer isn’t wrong, Eldar. She planned this all, every variable her brains could think of, back when the two of us first met. You should’ve realised that.”_  
 _“I did, but that doesn’t mean—”_  
 _“And back when Roamer and I first met, she planned to make me leader. Without consultation, mind you, but she planned it and set about the events that led to this. Granted, she wouldn’t know I’d become “Valion.” That’s Gereen’s contribution to her plan, but it was still her plan.” _  
_“Yes, but—”_  
 _“I can’t back down Eldar. Not now, now that I am Valion. Can’t you see?”_

Eldar did see.   
He just didn’t want to. 

He saw Lance now; tired, sad eyes fixed upon the screen, seeing and unseeing. He sat with only a blanket around his shoulders, using it as comfort to fight the cold of the room, staring at the holo-screen in his hands and nothing else.   
Wondering what it was that had taken his lover’s head-space for this moment in time, Eldar moved closer, nudging the strewn remnants of the boy’s clothes that lay across his path.

As Eldar made his way closer, he was able to see what had Lance’s undivided attention.  
The display was lit up with the image of the Castle of Lions. 

It was floating in the far quadrant of _Autn’fir,_ looking much like it had the first time Eldar had seen it, when curiosity lead to questions, and Lance led him from their bed to the helm where he located the Altean Craft with the _Godolphin’s_ systems. Since then, whenever he felt lonely, or nightmares kept him from sleep, Lance would return search for the Castle, and in the dead of hours, he would simply watch his family from afar.   
Eldar feared what dark thought-spiral had spurred the need to watch them again, so close to the dawning battle. 

The Pawther furthered his approach, his feet pressing heavy as he approached, sounding his arrival as not to shock his lover. Lance’s head jerked up, cheeks a flame from being caught, a hand moving to wipe away stray tears Eldar missed, unable to complete conceal the trace of silver lines that slipped down his cheeks. Eldar’s chest tightened.

“Eldar I—”  
“You needn’t explain. I had free time. I was hoping to speak with you before…” Eldar didn’t feel the need to finish his sentence, not with the way awash of prickling doubt came over him, the reminder enough for Lance to dim the holo-screen and abandon his place on the sofa. “Yes, yes, I—I was going to try and sleep. I told the others too, and here I am being hypocritical—” He tumbled over his own words, trying to pull excuses out of the mess in his head, not giving thought to the blanket as it fell away from him, stumbling from his seating, over more discarded clothes as his feet, flailing until he fell into his heart-mate’s waiting arms. 

“Lance, calm.”   
“We should go,” the boy said, but he was silenced with a stern look. “Lance.”   
The lilt of the Pawther’s voice made the boy’s name a simple question, but all at once it wasn’t. There were hundreds, heavy, dragging, hard-to-answer but Eldar asked them regardless, in hopes of taking _some_ weight from the boy.   
When he was offered nothing, Eldar lowered himself to a knee, looking up to Lance, with his beautiful tear-stained face, the scent of coming night, deep ocean caves and the cold touch of bed sheets when nightmares pull him from sleep.   
“Lance, sleep will come. But before, please, _tell me,_ why the need to see your family?”

“You saw?” 

Lance wears the face of a child fearing scolding from his parent, the press of teeth on his bottom lip endearingly cute, but there’s something about the notion that once called for the need of kisses, instead has Eldar’s hand reach up and cup his lover’s face, a thumb trailing along silver streams to dry them from the bronze-upon-copper, richer than gold.  
“There’s not much I don’t see when it comes to you, love.”   
That earned a snort. “If I was feeling horny, I could probably come up with something witty to reply with.”   
“Then it’s good thing you’re not. I don’t think we’d have enough time for me to enjoy all of you.” The mistake of Eldar’s words brought back the truth of time running out; the moment crashing back down, the smile upon Lance’s lips fading quicker than his scent, no longer pulling at sweetness, but once again the bitter after-taste of burnt food.

“Lance?”  
“I know, I know,” he said softly, leaning in, pressing his naked body to Eldar’s fur, sighing when the Pawther wraps him up in all his arms. “I can’t help it but….” The remainder of his words are lost to muffling of fur. It makes Eldar smile.   
He can feel the tiredness of his lover through their touch, through the way Lance’s fingers roam across his chest, fingers curling little grips of fur to hold onto like he does to comfort himself when they sleep. 

Eldar takes them to the bed now, allowing himself the slight relief when Lance’s scent lifts, ever so slightly. But he knows night always leaves the boy’s scent damp, and it will stay that way until the morn. Now remains to hold more reasons, and Eldar’s going to be by his lover’s side, just like he has when Lance wakes countless times before; torn from sleep by his nightmares, whimpering, holding onto Eldar like a lifeline, apologies tumbling with tears. 

And as Eldar always does, he curls up around his _Arenphine,_ hushing him, kissing him, telling him that he was okay, that they were both okay, both alive, that is was _nothing more than a nightmare._  
It is where Lance lies now, small and fragile in Eldar’s arms as they wait for sleep and the peace mindlessness will bring until battle. But sleep remains elusive for both, as tears come for the pair, too afraid to voice the horrors their mind depicts.   
Broken bodies, unspoken goodbyes… 

_“Eldar—”_ Lance says, voice no louder than a whisper “— _I’m scared.”_  
It wasn’t something Lance should’ve been ashamed of, Eldar tells him that, but there’s more. The boy’s body told Eldar that: the closeness, the tight grip of his fur in his _Arenphine’s_ fist, the speeding of his heart as fear and hurt and uncertainty swarmed the boy’s small body. 

Lance offers no more. Just silence.   
And then—

“I’m scared that this might be my last chance to ever speak to them.”

The boy’s words are small, unspeakably so, and Eldar may have thought himself hurting when he looks down and catches his lover with tears in his eyes, but listening to the crumbling of his will, the way his body, fragile and tender moulded his shape to the larger, he knows that his heart is truly breaking. “Lance, Lance no don’t cry,” he hushes, heart hurting, pulling the other close, feeling the wet of tears as the boy buries his face into the crook of his lover’s neck, breathing deep and disrupted by the sobs of broken cries. _“Hush,”_ Eldar whispers, as soft as dandelion wishes, little kisses pressed to the skin on the boy’s neck. He left his pheromones permeate the air, calming the boy, but doing nothing to the steady flow of tears that came in bountiful streams of silver, wetting Eldar’s fur as much as Eldar’s own.

“I w-want to s-see them Eldar. B-but there— _N-no t-time,”_ Lance sniffed, struggling with words and air alike as he tells his _Arenphine_ his want to speak with the family that he has long since abandoned. But never forgotten.   
He wants to reach out to them again, to apologise to them, to thank and to ask for forgiveness in what could be his last chance before he dies.

“You won’t die today Lance,” Eldar says, words strong despite the shake of emotion that makes his throat tight. His heart beats painfully in his chest, he can hear Lance’s too as salt tears are shared between them. 

_“You won’t die today._  
“I won’t let that happen.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Approaching Genwar

The main door to _Godolphin’s_ helm slid open in a rush of air, flowing out and against him. A moment of hesitation, to think, to feel, to regret every decision that he made, that lead up to this moment, and then another to squash it all down until there was nothing but blank grey and an _unknown_ that swept through the crew. It was a breath between this storm and the last, their backs to the ocean as not to see the coming waves that would surely drown them…

Everyone turned to face Valion as he stepped onto the Bridge, not letting himself give thought to everyone’s reaction when they turned to him and saw their leader stood beside the star-child, him resembling her in his own night-sky armour.  
Zaos has blessed him with protection, _“fitting for a leader,”_ she told him when he found her waiting in his quarters, staring at the distance planet, too soon to meet their eyes.   
She told him it’s because he is Valion, because they follow him and knowing that a child of the stars approves will give them all the strength to raise arms. _“My power cannot extend for everyone. You though,”_ she had said in his mind, turning from the window with a smile, eyes pooling galaxies of magnificent light. _“But let’s keep that a secret between us. I doubt Gereen would be too happy to know you had help in your battle.”_  
 _“You helped me?”_

Zaos had just smiled. _“No, not really. I may have hidden your pain, but I didn’t raise a hand to help you.”_

Whatever remaining questions Lance had for the star-child were left to utter to no one when she lifted a finger to her lips with a smile. A flutter of light shimmering across her body as the constellations changed their pattern as she moved finger from lips, to hold in the air. Lance followed the point to his bed where the armour she had brought for him waited: Thin plates of white and blue metal, harder than diamond, glittering like scales when pulled upon his legs, showing off the curve of well-defined muscles, yet keeping the limber movement of Human flexibility. His chest bore the same armour plating, his arms too. Boots slotted over the leg armour, clipping into place, yet Lance felt he was wearing slippers with how snug his feet would fit into them.   
Lance’s helmet was similar to his old Voltron one; yet the visor was not there, and detail rode up the spine of the helmet in an array of patterns that had entranced Lance when he first saw it. 

And he wore it now, as he approached the helm and the seat in which the _Sault_ was to sit.   
He wasn’t _Sault._

He was Valion. 

And with his order, he was to take his family into war.


	30. A Want To Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Solnha move against Galra, taking the war to Genwar

**System:** Caesura   
**Location:** Inbound For Genwar

“Are you ready?”  
“As I’ll ever be,” Kenmare says, giving a grin to his brother, in hopes to calm the nerves they both share. Neither suggests they feel as such, but when you’ve known someone since birth, watching them is much the same as looking into a mirror. Rayon maybe older, not by much, but enough that he holds himself as the “protective older brother” – yet still vulnerable to the fears all face at the dawn of imminent battle. 

Kenmare rapped his knuckles on his brother’s shell, pulling him out his thought-spiral before he could get lost. When Rayon turns to look, Kenmare pulls the knowing smirk that would normal spur them into tussling. “Don’t tell me you’re getting scared of a few Galra soldiers.”   
But rather than the usual don’t-be-stupid glare he’s usually gifted with, Rayon’s eyes turn away from his brother, to the far side of the hangar. “I’m not scared. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of the consequences if we fail. And I don’t just mean the forfeit of our deaths.” 

Kenmare’s gaze joins his brother.   
“Yes. I know what you mean.” 

They don’t say another word to one another, their eyes remaining on their _Sault_ and his _Arenphine_ close together in the quiet of their own company. 

The air is electricity around them. Buzzing. Alive. 

So is their fear.   
It crowds around them, but the heaviness of it was kept at bay from interlinking arms that stand as protection and comfort all the same. Eldar seeks it, and provides as he leans into Lance for his touch, scenting him with an urgency, with desperation but still his movements are slow and precise. Lance feels his lips curl, laughing, when he feels the furthest from joy.   
The more that time sped away from him, the more Eldar wished for it to stop. He clung to Lance like he might disappear if he was to let go. Lance holds on just as tightly, eyes closed as he breathes in and _lives_ the moments that, only months, feel like years and years with his heartmate. Here, in Eldar’s arms, he’s loved. 

Here, in Eldar’s arms, he’s _home._

Lance’s uneasiness was slightly soothed as Eldar rubbed his nose into the crook of the boy’s neck, pulling him in, hugging him, offering a small taste of comfort. Lance sighs and easily falls into the hug, letting the strong arms hold him tighter, nuzzling into the soft fur of his heartmate’s chest, seeking protection from the prowling beast or war. 

They had to run. It was the only way they would survive. 

But this beast was impossible to run from. In its lair was their prize, and there was no conceivable choice that would let them leave, even if it was with their ears flat and their tails between their legs. Eldar wanted to. He’d cower to the might of the beast and flee.   
But there was no way he’d leave, if his _Arenphine_ didn’t leave with him. 

Lance was stubborn, through and through. Brave, confident in their battle, persistent, tenacious and determined. In truth, obstinate, but endearingly so.   
He would stand his ground against the beast, he would not be forced from home nor would he turn down another that cried for their children, taken in its jaws and dragged into its den. For them, for those he cared for, and those he loved, Lance would march into the beast’s den and deal bloody battle in the hopes of protecting his family.   
Brave, and endearingly so. 

Lance doesn’t frighten easily: he stands his ground, side by side with his family. Blessed with the armour by the star—child, wrapped in prayers of his family, he’ll run into the heat of battle, hand in hand with his _Arenphine._

_“I don’t want this,”_ Eldar confesses to the quiet, trying to remain in soft-sunshine-warmth. It’s in vain, he knows, but there’s no harm for wanting. 

Lance doesn’t reply. His words don’t work for the moment, his hands holding on to Eldar; finger twirling the warmth of gold that once sat in snug of his lover’s ear, now bound to his neck on a chain just as light, and warm. Crafted for him, by his lover, in the faint hope that the memento will keep his lover safe where he cannot. To bring him comfort, _when he cannot._  
Lance didn’t speak when given it, but he smiled, eyes wet with tears. He was thankful, and wished to gift something in return. But Eldar took his smile, saying he needed nothing more other than a promise that Lance will return to him, when the smoke is cleared and the fires have burnt themselves into oblivion. 

Lance has simply nodded. He fears opening his mouth to speak will invite nothing but tears and sobs and…   
He’s about to lead the ground infiltration mission. There is no room for _weakness._

So instead, he pulls from the safety-home-love-relinquishing grip of his lover and _smiles._  
The notion doesn’t meet his eyes. 

And Eldar, knowing he cannot force what can’t be given, simply leans in to taste the boy’s lips once more. There is hesitation when he pulls away, and mouth moving against his lovers, he whispers what he begs not to their final words: 

_“Whatever you do, come back to me.”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“And here I was thinking we were going to have to send out a search party,” Uilt’xen snipes when Lance boards the small stealth jet, jaw tense, eyes firmly staring at the floor to resist the want to turn back to his lover one last time. The door closes and he misses his opportunity.

“Are you sure you don’t want one last round before we leave,” Ygrainne grins from her forward seat, copying the gunner’s teasing tone. Ryul is strapped into the second, but upon Valion’s boarding, he’s moving to sit next to Leonel during their descension to _Genwar’s_ surface.   
“And give you guys a Rayon in-flight entertainment? I don’t think so,” Lance grins, but he’s sitting himself in Ryul’s abandoned chair before anyone can be sure if it’s fake or not. By Ygrainne’s glance to them all, they know their leader isn’t being truthful in his outward appearance. He’s just as apprehensive as the rest of them for this upcoming mission. 

Nothing more is said, however, as the engines fire into life. Thrusters ignited, stabilisers full power and artificial gravity engaged as it pushes off of the _Godolphin’s_ hangar. If Lance let himself look anywhere other than the controls, he’d see his family waving at him through the main holo-display. But he can’t look. _He can’t._

They leave the orbit of _Genwar’s_ largest moon; the hiding place of the Solnha fleet before the initial attack. Valion makes it painfully obvious he is refusing to look to the gathered spacecraft, pulling the ship sharply away, slipping into the shadow of the moon, using its gravitational pull to slingshot them down to Genwar’s surface.   
Roamer’s done the math and Irian has double checked it all. It’s easier for them to sneak to the surface without power and without any communication link that can be tracked. Getting back however…

“You’ve got seven point three Dobosh before the next orbit patrol,” Ryul says, his fingers tapping away at a holo-screen on his lap. It’s not broadcasting, and it’s small enough it’s signature will remain undetected by orbital drones when they finally shut systems down, but that doesn’t mean that the fact the tiny device is their _only_ source of guidance, until they’re practically hitting the ground.   
Ygrainne and Ryul have done the test run a thousand times, landing on stray moons and planets between _Uris_ and _Genwar’s_ outer orbits, but this time they don’t have a safety net, so to speak. Valion wasn’t too pleased to find out they were also going to be relying on his piloting skills to land them safely, in hopes of getting planetside without detection. Roamer certainly thought too highly of him. And no, _Paladin of Voltron_ wasn’t a good enough excuse, but everyone else agreed and Valion didn’t have the energy to argue.   
So, here he was. And here they all were, in his hands as the ship aimed for _Genwar._

Ygrainne began their check-through, eyeing the markers between the ship and the Galra’s outer patrol route. This one they’d be passing through, all systems go, but that didn’t mean it came without risk. “Enemy patrol?”  
“Out of range, but closing fast.”  
“Do we need to speed our decent?”   
“Can’t. It will throw off Roamer’s calculations. We need to stick to our course or risk crashing upon entry.” 

Valion casts an eye to perimeter tracker, his heart in his throat as the radar remained empty. He hopes it would stay as such, but hopes and reality are two vastly different things. 

“We need to shut the systems down.”   
Valion keeps his voice clear of emotion, but knows it does nothing to ease the tension in the air. He’s practically suffocating on his own fear, he doesn’t have time to calm the others. “But the tracker—”  
“Will have to be monitored by Ryul. You got that?” the boy asks, throwing his head over his shoulder, looking to his team for the first time.   
Ryul is huddled close, eyes wide but lips set as he monitor’s their trajectory and the debris field between _Genwar’s_ second moon and the planet herself. Uilt’xen and Kenmare are looking at nothing, eyes closed, hands held almost in prayer. Rayon is sat opposite them, looking stoic and laid back, but in his scowl, Lance can see underneath the falsity of his boredom.   
Only Leonel is standing, riding the current of the ship with a look of concentration. He meets Valion’s eyes with his own. There is no smile. But there is determination. Valion will take it. 

“Ryul, you ready?”   
“Just give the word.” 

At Valion’s signal, Ygrainne continues through their check-through, shutting down each system as they read out the data for Ryul.   
“Control subsystem.”  
“Switching to manual.” 

“Radio frequency.”  
“Locked, ready for scramblers.”   
“Silence it.” Valion does as instructed, ignoring the drop in his stomach as he cuts off communication with the fleet. It’s early than planned, and no doubt it’s going to make Eldar panic, but they’re clear on instructions: _no movement until Valion gives the go ahead._

Ygrainne continues. “Shield down. Propulsion on forty percent. Close valves and drop pressure to ten.”   
“Ygrainne, we’re cutting it close.” They’re on the enemy unit’s path now, Ryul’s system warning them with faint trills or pre-recorded danger. Their trajectory is on point but they’re behind by two all-round counts. “We’re going to be seen Ygrainne, we need to cut the power.”   
The team behind pull on their respirators, just as the perimeter tracker bleeps at them, three purple dots to their nine, but they’re on the edge of the radar. Ygrainne scrambles for the controls, fighting the pull as the skim the edge of _Genwar’s_ third moon. 

“Ready to go dark. Valion, cut the power.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. At the press of his hand, the lights flicker and power down, the only source coming through the main holo-display. Ygrainne looks gaunt beside him, he can feel the heaviness upon his shoulders, the fear creeping up his spine as Ryul’s holo-tab makes a series of noise.   
Valion doesn’t want to ask. “Are we still on course?”  
“Still on course.” 

Silence creeps in like smog, chests heavy, throats tight. No one wants to speak, but no one wants the silence either. 

Lance hates the silence. He hates it with a fire in his gut and a chill in his hands.   
It’s this looming darkness that finds him most nights, when sleep evades him and he can’t bring himself to pull Eldar from what respite he’s found. But here, in the jump before the fall, it’s not good to let the monsters in. It’s not good that he loses slip on his focus, his mind returning to the fears that settle in his gut like poison, bubbling-thick-acidic-sludge that burns his chest, his throat, his eyes.   
He’s thankful for his mask; it hides his fear from his team. But not himself. 

_{It’s useless. You’re leading them to their deaths.}_

Anadón once feasted upon this darkness, wearing it like a cloak. Lance can almost feel him now, hear his dark laughter and heavy taunts dragging him down.   
Regret is heavier than fear. Fear is the shackles that bind him, but regret are the wings, blood-soaked and featherless that once could fly and return him to his lover, to his family, _to the Paladins._

_{They didn’t want you, they knew you’d bring them down._   
_{Look what you’re doing now, Lance. You’re bringing them all down. _

_{You’re going to kill them.}_

Anxiety-fear-pain- _regret_ bubbles under his skin. He wants to pace. He wants to pull back. He wants to take his brothers, his sisters, _his family_ far away from this war—

_“Six Mega-Jumps.”_  
Ryul starts; the derivation of final preparations begun. 

Valion steadies his hand on the controls, Ygrainne copying him. “With me,” he says. It doesn’t sound like him, but that could be down to the fact he’s wearing a mask and his voice is muffled and _he feels like he’s suffocating._ Ygrainne nods.   
A hand on his shoulder tells him Leonel has joined them. It’s firm and comforting, but it doesn’t last. Valion would ask Leonel to stay if he didn’t care about looking weak. But then the Vhoadan has to strap himself in, in case the trajectory veers off course and they end up changing their stealth-swoop into a crash landing. 

_“Four Mega-Jumps.”_  
They pass _Genwar’s_ second moon, the debris field of fleeing ships glancing off their wings, crashing into the hull, but doing minor damage as the needle ship glances through.   
_“Three Mega-Jumps… Two… One.”_

They hit the atmosphere. 

The juddering of restriction from the sudden increase in atmospheric pressure makes the entire ship shake worse than a tin can full of pennies.   
The controls fight him, Valion struggling to keep trajectory, as does Ygrainne, side by side, straining to stop the ship falling into a corkscrew descent. “Brace!” the Human yells, and it’s the go for his co-pilot to power the ship while the team tucks into themselves, hitting the second atmosphere. Valion’s ears scream under the pressure but he’s got more to worry about when the inactive control subsystem jerks and their spiral takes effect, pulling them too close to the bright lights of the Galra base.   
_“Point seven,”_ Ryul yells over the sound of the ship tearing itself apart. “Shields up now, or we’ll burn up.” It’s hot, too hot for comfort but the shields can’t be brought back online until they’re at least point seven mega-jumps from the surface.

Artificial gravity is also out, and the team are all pulled to the back of the ship, Ygrainne and Valion straining against their harnesses. The tension on his shoulders reminds Lance of the crappy, manual buckled straps back at the Garrison, when he, Hunk and Pidge used to fail spectacularly on Garrison flight simulations. Or mainly, Lance, because he always wanted to show off, screwing up when he tried risky manoeuvres and “childish stunts” that led to lectures and admonishing scowls.   
“Suck it now, _yinvard,”_ he whispered to himself, the ghost of a grin pulling on his lips as he heard the screams of Pidge and Hunk behind him, telling him to pull up, _“Lance, pull up! We’re going to crash!”_

The engines roar to life, the give of the atmosphere relinquishing to assisted control under the whirring subsystem. Everything wakes, like a sleeping giant, and suddenly the world shifts sideways, and their hurtling towards the ground at a ninety-degree angle. 

“Lance, the trajectory—”  
“Too late to change it now, Ryul,” Valion shouts over the sounds of the ship breaking, half his head focused on trying to pull the vessel upright, another hoping they won’t be noticed by the Galra and another praying that the ship will be able to fly after his risky manoeuvre. Ryul and Ygrainne staying planetside wasn’t in the plans. 

His co-pilot has manned the shields, so now they’re up and running, protecting the ship from burning up on entry, but it also means that the engines have to counteract the sudden drag. Ryul’s yelling. “Too fast, we’re going to crash,” and _oh how that doesn’t bring back memories._  
Lance knuckled the controls again, not bothering to fight the bubble of laughter when Uilt’xen lets out a cry at the sudden burst of speed, contradictory to their hopes that Lance is going to pull back and _stop_ the ship from crashing. 

“Lance!”   
“Hold on now. We have to be quick if we’re getting in past their scanners.” 

“Not yet,” Lance laughs, because he’s caught in the moment between memory and reality, and it’s not his team that he speaks to, but ghosts that no longer stand shoulder to shoulder with him. 

The proximity alarm blares, the cockpit red. “Lance, we’re getting close. Pull up!”  
 _“Not yet Keith. You’re taking all the fun out of it.”_

Lance tilted the ship forward, forcing the now-fire-resistant ship to dive down quicker towards the endless black of tumbled jungle trees. Ryul knew with Lance, begging would do nothing, retuning to shout out distance readings while Ygrainne wrestles for control of her own stomach and piss-stench-fear, hand on her stomach and another over her eyes. 

The ship dives into red, the alarms shrill in his ears, the cockpit a cacophony of noise, the ships’ sensors fooled into thinking the ship was crashing, and not just taking a hairpin dive to the surface. And still, Lance kept on the thrusters, grinning at the thought that Keith would’ve pulled up by now.   
The realisation of his head-space’s focus jarred him, jarred his hands when suddenly _there was the moment,_ and Lance pulled up with all his strength. “Ygrainne _now!”_ She’s with him, shoulder to shoulder, arms flexing, faces tight with fear and determination as the battle the very planet’s pull. The spacecraft lurched suddenly, almost throwing everyone to the floor. Or, it would’ve if they hadn’t been buckled down in their seats, but Ryul was close to getting a face full of his holo-tab, that is still screaming alarms at him. 

The ship is still. He threw a look at Lance.   
“That was stupid,” he growls, the tone of his voice betraying him to the fact he’s close to messing himself from the near-death-experience. Valion shakes his head, knowing it was childish, but still served the purpose of infiltration. “It was necessary. Roamer’s calculations don’t lie. Any slower, and the enemy’s sensors would’ve picked us up long before we breached atmosphere. Even if they didn’t detect a signal, they would’ve detected debris. Considering our ship is bigger than the average hunk of warped metal currently caught in the second moon’s orbit, they would’ve had to check it out and then we’d have a double dozen Galra robots on our ass's.” There was no bite to Valion’s words, but something in his voice told Ryul not to argue. No one else said anything either. 

Still, not only did the trick serve to get the planetside, but it has drawn everyone’s mind from the fear of the mission, if only for a moment. Valion hopes that their “near-death” might be enough to calm their nerves for the remaining hardships ahead. Not that making the decent hard would ease the roubles of infiltrating, but perhaps in retrospect, the team might’ve used up all their fear pissing their pants on decent, rather than later when they’re facing down a billion Galra soldiers.   
It was the hope at least. 

The ship hangs in the quiet, stationary below the treeline of the jungle’s trees. His part done, Valion retreats to the back of the ship, where his ground team have unbuckled themselves from the confine of seats and are double-checking their armaments and weapons, like they haven’t done it a thousand times on the _Godolphin._ Besides, doing it now is a bit pointless, considering there’s no way they can get anything forgotten from the ship. They have to make do with what they’ve got. 

Ryul seats himself besides Ygrainne, already running diagnostics with more snark than normal. Valion ignores him, taking position with the others as the ship continues to lower itself towards the ground. Not quite landing, they hover over one of _Genwar’s_ many jungle lakes, the guidance system indicating their general direction needs to be North West, where they can head towards the bottom of the plateau, upon which is built the Galra’s mining facility on the planet.   
They can’t get too close with the ship though, and they certainly can’t leave it in park while the rest of them go gallivanting off inside enemy territory. So Ygrainne and Ryul are returning to the firefight come Valion’s order for the Solnha to move. 

They’re going to be stranded. 

“All systems quiet,” Ygrainne orders, turning back to the main screen, manoeuvring the small ship closer to the surface of the lake, the nose pointing to a feeder river that would take them to the base of the plateau, and a waterfall that will cover the noise of their engines.   
The drop-off zone had already been scouted by the Hycis and a few from Fellfrir’s crew, some weeks prior. Leonel was part of the initial scouting party, but he hadn’t even left his ship, so there was little more than the drop-off path down to a T. The rest was planned in a rough sketch, but ultimately once the five were in the Galra base, they only had a Varga to locate the Hycis and get them out. Point seven at a push, but beyond that, Roamer had warned that their causalities would be in the warning stages.   
Valion didn’t want any. But that was a fool’s hope and he knew it to be impossible. 

Ryul mashed the dashboard keys beside Lance, everything powering down except the engines and the visual display. The ship ghosted along the water current, creeping closer to the giant shadow of the plateau.   
“There, straight ahead,” the Balmeran said, focusing on guiding the ship towards the sounds of cascading water and the cavern hidden behind the large waterfall. He closed the dorsal vents, then shared control of the vessel with Ygrainne to bring them down on a shelf halfway inside the cave behind the water. Better than at the base of the plateau, but that left them on a narrow ledge, slick with water and not much manoeuvrability in terms of planning a path up the cliff face.   
When they touched down, Valion returned to the main dash, linking the ship with the outgoing transmission to the _Wearne,_ still behind _Genwar’s_ largest moon. “Roamer. We’re on the surface. Keep an ear out for the signal.”   
_“Acknowledged.”_

Uilt’xen was the first out, followed by Rayon and Kenmare, Leonel coming fourth and Lance last. He gave one last goodbye to his Solnha brother and sister, before jumping from the ship, into Uilt’xen’s waiting arms.   
“Nice to see you again,” she laughed, but its fake. They can all hear her hearts, beating too fast for the tone she implies, but no one will call her out on it. 

“Ready? Then let’s go.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_{It’s useless. You’re leading them to their deaths. They didn’t want you, they knew you’d bring them down. Look what you’re doing now, Lance.}_

_{You’re bringing them all down.} _

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Leonel took point, the only weapons drawn were his spines, ticking as they tapped the rock upon passing, hand holding onto the cliff face to keep purchase on rock lest the slippery surface underfoot threatens to send him over the edge and into the icy river below.  
No one else draws their weapons. None of the recon missions had found sentries this far from the base.

The quiet, as it had been back on the ship, doesn’t settle well with the team. This time though, it’s broken.   
“As much as I respect Roamer and her smarts, I wish I had the same confidence in her as you,” Kenmare says as they watch the white needle ship disappear into the dark of the jungle’s shadow. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m bricking it just as much as you guys.”   
Kenmare fixed Valion with a raised eyebrow. “…bricking… _it?”_  
“It’s a Terran term. Neither mind.” 

And unlike aboard the ship, the tension is gone. Fear is still apparent; it’s not going to dissipate until after the mission is over, but everyone’s kicking it down with determination and a renewed energy that comes with the fact they’re no longer sitting still, _waiting,_ doing nothing but just _waiting…_  
Now they’re on _Genwar,_ one hand on the cliff, their feet pressing onto cool, wet rock as they search for the best path _up._

“Here?” Leonel asks, the first to stop, head stretched back, spines tapping at the rock, not quite wet, but not quite dry either. There is moss growing, soaking up the spray of water, but still, it’s not enough.   
“Not here. The rock is too slippery. We don’t need the risk of falling. Go around, further from the waterfalls’ mist. We’ll fall back on ourselves further up.”   
They did as Uilt’xen advised, moving further from the waterfall, heading West to drier rock. 

Leonel asks twice again, before any of the team decide they’re going to find no easier path. It’s as if they’re delaying, but they know they can’t. The longer they do, the longer they risk a patrol stumbling onto the fleets position and diminishing their window for infiltration. It’s either here, or not at all and they call the entire operation off.   
And that is _not_ in the plans. 

Rather than one after another, it’s best to all climb at once, lessening the time for ascent and hopefully, reducing the chance of being caught. They know sentries patrol the top of the plateau, but they’re not certain if they’re on the path of drones. 

Lance pulled the foot wrappings of his armour tight, then tighter still; checking himself for loose clothing that would catch on the climb. He feels a little jealous towards his fellow gunner’s longer limbs and the power’ twins strong grip. Leonel’s got it well off with his extra limbs and his ability to see in the dim light like its midday, not to mention the fact that Vons is a planet of spires and web bridges, meaning he learnt to climb before he learnt to walk…  
But Lance knows this is the only way up, and if he needs help doing so, the team aren’t going to hold it against him. It’s not his fault he’s Human, as they say, but it’s only in jest and usually rebutted with a bo staff to the person’s toe, or a kali stick to their forehead.  
It doesn’t matter. They get the message. 

Still, Valion isn’t there to be a burden, so when he’s sure he’s free of anything that may snag, he’s up the rock face with everyone else, climbing with rhythm and determination that sets him a hand hold higher than Kenmare, who takes the path beneath him. Uilt’xen is above, Rayon and Leonel like guards beside him, and they’re climbing.   
He deliberately keeps his thoughts away from how high he is already and the fact that there’s no safety harness in case he falls – minus the grabbing limbs of his teammates.   
_Doesn’t matter, I can do this,_ Lance urges himself, adrenaline and fear spiking his senses. He can hear rocks falling beneath his, every grab of ledges and handholds feeling like they move inches as he puts his full weight on it. _And this was meant to be the easy part._

Lance’s mask helped him with visuals, Uilt’xen helping show him the path, showing him where to put hands, where foot holds were and where the loose rocks were. She strips off moss that will hamper the grip of his shorter finger’s, tests the hold of roots as they grow closer to the top of the cliff ledge. Then, the climb is harder because they’re weaving in and out of roots that look like they’d hold the boy’s weight, but then they’re bowing and he has to jump quickly to the next one before he falls to the jungle floor.   
It’s a long way down and Lance doesn’t want to test the strength of his armour against gravity. 

The team reach the plateau shelf just as the last of the sun slipped from the sky. Up here, they had little cover, only the odd plant and bush that hadn’t been cut down to build the Galran mining base.   
But Lance was grateful. Better some than none. 

They tucked in close to the shadows, following the sparse vegetation back towards the waterfall, tracing the torrent of water that is a natural boundary for the base. But it needs to be crossed by the Galra and there’s a bridge, unguarded, in the shadow of the base. It’s not without risk, being in the sight of both watchtowers, but crossing it will be less than ten steps and it’s dark, so the team are on the bridge, and across before anyone even _thinks_ to check for eyes in the towers. No alarms are sounded, however, and they’re in the bases’ shadow with little deviation from the plans. 

“Blind spot, there,” Rayon says, pointing to their goal; a place upon the wall that is hidden between the forward two towers. It was on the south wall, the closest to the waterfalls on the edge of the plateau. Maybe the Galra thought the natural landscape was good enough defence, but then again, maybe they were getting lazy after so many years of not being challenged by any serious force.   
_Their mistake._

Valion turns back to his team, eyeing their faces, seeing the familiar resolve, the hidden ghost of fear, but their determination to start battle and claim back comrades that were being used and abused upon their very own homeworld.   
“Ready?”   
“Let’s kick ass.” 

With Valion’s signal, the plan was set into motion. 

First, it the sky was dark and empty.   
Then all of a sudden, the sky was light with flame when a dozen lasers from the needle ship lit up the control towers on the outskirts of the base, West side. Another dozen more and the echoing of crumbling walls signalled the fall of the tower, and a crucial element to the Galra’s monitoring system. 

Naturally, the attack spurred the Galra into action. Three fleets of Djalg launched into the night sky, chasing Ygrainne and Ryul, up into the atmosphere, where the remainder of the fleet made their surprise appearance from the shadows of the outer orbiting moons, engaging the orbiting station in a one-sided fire fight before the might of the Empire could be released. 

_The countdown had begun._

Valion and his team stuck close to the wall, following their leader’s cue of silence, even if they weren’t going to be heard over the sounds of launching Djalg and explosions from the far side of the base.   
He had his light-sword out before everyone had drawn their own weapons, ramming it into the outer wall, praying the scans were correct and it was only a third of a line thick. He wasn’t going for perfect lines like Saturday morning cartoon heroes could do; just enough that his carves would connect and he’d be able to cut himself and his team an entrance into the base.   
It was harder than he thought it would be, his head counting the ticks that passed, as another one wasted. 

_{Too slow, too slow, they’re already dead~}_

But then, they were in, and the timer in Lance’s head was shoved to the back as they storm the empty courtyard and beyond, to the main base.   
Door. Entry.   
_Run._

They’re in the base. Emptier from the distraction, but that was only half the mission sorted. Luckily, Galra bases all held similar layouts, and Valion found the maintenance hold with ease, running to the small alcove in the back that stored building plans for the entire base. It was as if the Galra _wanted_ to be defeated.   
The team needed the basic layout, and maintenance _always_ had blueprints on hand. The usual files they’d hacked from transmission hadn’t relayed to any location of the Hycis’ containment location, and what Or’ could translate from coded messages they _did_ hack into, it seem the prisoners were being kept near the entrance to the mining tunnels than any real holding bay. 

“There,” Kenmare said, pointing to the blueprint. Lance didn’t understand the Galran writing, but the hash markings that lay over the large space had to mean _something._ And considering the walls of said hash markings remained incomplete, then surely that meant that was the mining tunnels. And the holding place of the prisoners.   
It didn’t matter if it was, or wasn’t. They still had a predicted one, point three-ish Varga of time remaining before the Solnha would be forced to retreat. They had enough time to scour the base from top to bottom if necessary. _Not that they wanted to…_  
The best part about the space battle above, was the fact that it drew the numbers out; the purpose of the distraction but it was helpful to the mission, leaving the team with more freedom to search unhindered. Still, Voltron infiltration raids had always been easier with Allura and Pidge’s knowledge of Galran tech, and their ability to hack into the mainframes to pull up interactive maps— _Don’t think about it._

Lance charged forward, his footsteps light, his shift-blade morphing into the sniper module to take out two approaching android – wires fried before their bodies hit the floor. Most of the sentries would be too busy on defend mode, not having the capacity to check their systems for _infiltration possibilities._ Another disadvantage of the Galra’s empire in choice to employ androids as the bulk of their armies, but Lance wasn’t going to point out a fatal flaw for them. He agreed with Pidge, robots were easier to deal with— _No! I said don’t think about them!_

_{Can’t get distracted Lance. Distractions leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to fatalities.}_

_{Who are you going to kill this time?}_

The walls and floors of the looming corridors changed slowly, from metal to earthen, until they were running down a hand carved tunnel. It was like on the Balmera. _As long as there weren’t any traps this time._  
Thinking of the giant millennial beast, Lance cast his eyes to Rayon and Kenmare, who once thrived on their homeworld much the same as this; a warren of tunnels and a paradise that needn’t reply on the sun’s harsh heat. They’re face remained hard set in stone; it was hard to see any emotion. Maybe Roamer’s plans for them to join him hadn’t been the best of options.   
But Lance had needed those he could trust, and to free the Hycis, he knew the power twins were fitting. Kenmare and Rayon insisted, claiming themselves to be Lance’s bodyguards. Uilt’xen had been recommended by Eldar, mainly for her ferocity and loyalty to protect Lance from danger. It seemed the Draora weren’t the only ones playing protector.   
Leonel was Roamer’s choice, of course, and not just for his previous experience as scout to this planet. 

A rumbling above reminded them of the distraction and their footsteps hurried. There was only one way forward — _thank god—_ and it wasn’t long until the thoroughly mined tunnel began to glitter with spires of _Hexhoth Quartz_ began to appear, just before the main cavern; blocked by two large doors built right into the walls. They remained closed, and guarded by too-many sentries. 

“This is either a treasure vault, or where they’re keeping the prisoners,” Uilt’xen yells over the sounds of laser fired in her direction, shifting her long appendages to the _Kaut_ pouch on her hip. She took out two with one rock, the egg bursting on contact, freezing the sentries in the _suddenly-rock-solid-substance_ that hissed in the cool of the air.   
Lance scored himself double points with his own shot but the time Kenmare and Rayon had launched themselves into the ranks, taking out a handful each. Leonel was already in the thick of it, attacking with his arms, his extra limbs and his bulbous that ensnared any sentry that got too close, webbing them to the ground and rendering them useless.

Adrenaline took over. Fire in Valion’s blood.   
He moved in anger, vengeance, and deliberation, delivering blow after blow to the androids that stood between him and the prisoner’s freedom. He’s angry, of course he is, he can feel it burning through hi like a tidal wave of fire, as if the anger and hate towards everyone who threatens his family can be destroyed with the simply swipe of a blade and the oozing of blood and oil that made his hands wet, damp, _warm._

_My family,_ he thinks in a moment of madness. _They’re threatening my family._  
Around him is blood and sweat and death. He can smell fear, acidic-biting, pushing on his tongue, pulling the snarl that lets loose once more. Gereen heard it, before he fell, but the sentries don’t hear it before their downed by his blade, his sword, his sabre. 

And all at once, the danger is gone.   
Where there was enemy is now only whirring machines, broken limbs and the sparking of commands that go nowhere. _Can’t fight, can’t stand, can’t defend._ Valion and his family have seen to that. 

Rayon smashes the door’s key-coded lock system. Two ticks and the doors groaned at being opened in the middle of the night, annoyed but responsive nonetheless.   
Lance watched them open, pulling out his electric gar as the darkness behind seemed to suck them closer. Some childish thought offers the gruesome face of a blood-thirsty monster, but it’s not his fear permeating the stale air beyond the doors: It’s the entirety of the captive Hycis, huddled in small groups, ankles chained, hands linked with lines of energy beads that won’t allow fully use of their arms. 

“So many,” Kenmare says softly, watching as the closest captives’ shudder to the sound of the door opening, faces turned, expecting the crack of the whip and not the warmth of saviours who have come for them, to offer freedom and soothing of the pain. There are no windows in their prison; no light from the sky for them to tell between day and night. But maybe the start of their diurnal rhythm was the doors opening, before being dragged out and forced to mine the _Hexhoth Quartz._

_{So many~}_

_{So many~}_

_{No way to save them all~}_

The cavern ceiling shook, dust raining down on the cowering prisoners that didn’t know of the battle raging outside. To them, it was the echoing sounds of war that had enslaved them when the Galra first invaded. They huddled in their groups, those that awoke to the sounds, crying out for answers or comfort that few could give. Too many broken wills, broken spirits. _Broken bones._  
Many called names, seeking loved ones out of fear. 

“We need to take out the sentries first,” Valion growled, spotting the glimmer of patrolling androids as they began to move, walking between the prisoners, their pre-programmed commands demanding silence. The closest Hycis replied as order, fearing the blaster the patrols held. Others couldn’t help their cry of fear, the noise only echoing in the cavern as gun barrels were brought down on bruised arms, raised to protect them from the familiarity of daily abuse.

The fire once again fuelled Valion’s actions.   
He was the first to move; vaulting over the side of the raised railing that separated the lower cell with the carved tunnel. The gar gave him the power to overwhelm the three nearest, the sniper module taking out a forth as his family moved in, to support him. 

“Who is that?”   
“They fight the Galra guards?”

Questions bubbled up from the surrounding prisoners, the bravest standing, to get a better look at the mismatch team of Aliens that have appeared in the midst. And who was the small scrawny masked-one approaching?

“We are of the Solnha Pirates. We’re here to help you escape,” Valion said, his voice echoing in the chamber, loud enough to be heard by all. “We need to leave now if we are to get you all out before the Galra realise that we are here. Time is short.” But before he has stepped forward to strike the first chain, he’s stopped. 

“What of the children? Are they safe?”  
A pale yellow Hycis stood near apart from the others, all eyes on her; hands bound in front of her, yet clutching her heart. Her scent was soft, motherly, but soaked in deep-rich-fear, mingling with honey-sunshine-spring hope. _Eldar,_ Lance thought briefly. 

“They have our children. They will harm them if we do not listen.” 

_This wasn’t part of the plan. They had stupidly assumed all prisoners were kept in the cells, all of them together._

Valion turns, hoping it’s simply a lapse in memory, but the others look just as fearful under their masks. They can’t show despair to the Hycis, not this close to victory. But Lance isn’t about to abandon the children to early deaths. 

“Do you know where they are?” he says, turning back to the mother. She nods her head. “The Galra hold them here, beneath our feet where _Genwar_ warms them and burns the rock in her heart. She is protecting them, but she cannot free them by herself.”   
But the Hycis aren’t yet free. And they are bound by chains that will take too long to break before attracting sentries. By that time, the children would surely be under heavy guard, or god-forbid, _executed._

There’s no time to think, no time to consider defeat when the air screams of danger, the very planet rumbles with anger as the Galra move against her children. 

_They come for death._

“We need to move. _Fast_ split,” Valion says, speaking to his team, but not giving them more than words as he raises his blade again and again, carving through metal to release the Hycis. “We can’t wait to free everyone, then rush for the children. The Galra will cut us off and it will be too late.” He doesn’t threaten the idea of death out loud, knowing it will only cause panic and assure defeat for them all. “We need to—”  
“There’s no time. We have to separate.”   
“And let the Galra pick us off, one by one? _No way.”_  
“Valion.” 

It is Uilt’xen who steps forward, away from her family who have joined Valion in freeing the Hycis from their bonds. “Valion, we _have_ to. The others above won’t be able to remain as just a distraction for long. And the longer we have them engage the enemy, the more chance for failure. _We need to split up.”_  
Valion shakes his head, but he doesn’t deny the truth he already came to and purposefully ignored. _Ignorantly ignored._  
The Human looks his sister in the eye. “You know I hate you right.” Uilt’xen smiles. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’ll meet you in the tunnel,” and then she kisses his brow, grabs Kenmare’s hand and they’re running further into the cavern, urging the already free Hycis to grab rocks, to grab the sentries’ blasters, _anything,_ to help free their kin from their bonds.

Rayon watches the pair for a moment, sharing the feelings of rocks in his gut as the other two, but then they’re all running up, out, away from the prisoners to divergence in the paths that will leads them down to _Genwar’s_ core and the waiting children. 

They ran down the tunnel; a pack closing in on their hunt, silent, with only the thoughts of the young in their minds. Rayon and Leonel’s mind remained on the thundering of the battle above, Valion’s fears a little closer to themselves and the remaining Galra androids that were sure to hear the footsteps of the Hycis horde when they eventually followed, searching for their children. But the space battle outside was a good enough distraction they didn’t need to fear being caught. _Yet._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_{You’re going to kill them.}_

_{Too slow, too slow, they’re already dead~}_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The tunnels are long and winding, twisting and turning. And smothering.  
Valion choked on the stench of fear in the air, suffocating and clouding as it filled the lower tunnels. The children were ahead, he hoped, but not being able to pull apart their tear-stained horror from the mind-numbing chill of their parents that mined this warren, Lance had nothing to support his thoughts. _He just had to hope._

But hope was an easy thing to be destroyed. The blade that cut the strand came in the path of three: Three separate tunnels twisting off of their rock-carved passageway. One headed North, up and away, curving to hide what lay at the end. One stuck out to their right, veering back the way they came, while the other was a steep, straight shot down, towards _Genwar’s_ core.   
The floor is a mess of wires that supply power to the lights, but there’s no clear current that stands stronger than the rest, nor is there a clear indicator to the imprisoned children. _Damn it. Which way?_  
And still, no one was answering. 

“Ygrainne? Ryul? _Anyone,_ for god’s sake answer, there’s been a change in plans, we need more time,” Lance hissed into the silence; _thick, heavy, terror-filled silence._ He doubts his path again, doubts that it is the obvious one that leads down, to the core. Memories of the trap on the Balmera fill his mind, numbing the boy’s movements, stealing the confidence he clung to when he was Valion, when he was meant to be leading his family and allies to safety.   
But first, locating the children. If he made the wrong choice could cement the deaths of the Hycis’ offspring. 

His chest heaved again.   
The boy could almost smell Death in the wind, ripe and putrid. He bared his teeth in an instinctual snarl, muscles tensing, coiling, like a snake preparing to strike as his mind’s eye showed him dead children. Corpses bloodless and lifeless, strewn across the cavern floor.   
For the first time since strengthening his bond with Eldar, Lance wished he hadn’t. He didn’t want the gift his _Arenphine_ gave, with his heightened senses that let him taste the fear of the children, fear of his teammates and his own, pale-yellow, snow-chill, rotting-meat anxiety. _Suffocating, overpowering, smothering—_

The connection to the ships crackled in response, fear in Lance’s chest when he saw the corpses of his family join the Hycis children. “Ygrainne? Ryul?” Lance crouched lower, pushed against the wall when whispers became low words, “are you there?” But the crackle is his only answer a Lance has nothing but fear in heart and mind when he yells out _“Eldar!”_ in desperation.   
A hand squeezes his shoulder, and there’s Rayon, stern and understanding. His mask doesn’t hide his own scent of fear.   
“It must be the tunnels. We’re too deep. They can’t hear us.” 

To Lance’s fear-stained mind it is a logical excuse. One he latches onto to save himself the thoughts of _what if—_  
“We have to keep moving,” he says, not letting him think anymore on the subject. 

Lance turns back to the others, Valion once more. “We’ll take the left one first, then the right—”  
“There’s no time. We have to separate again.” 

“No one is to be by themselves,” Valion says, but it’s a pointless remark. There’s no way three can divide into pairs. 

With no other choice: _“Fine._ Rayon, you and Leonel take the North tunnel. I’ll take this one.” But when Valion turns Leonel is already hightailing it down the North tunnel. “Too slow,” he laughs, “looks like I’m going on ahead,” and he’s gone before either Human or Draora can call him back.   
Rayon is smiling. “I knew there was something about that kid that I liked. 

“Well. There’s nothing for it now. We got to keep moving.” He takes the tunnel to the right, leaving Valion to delegate him to the right tunnel leading down, and inevitably, into a trap.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_{Can’t get distracted Lance. Distractions leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to fatalities.}_

_{Who are you going to kill this time?}_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

It’s hard to stand. It’s hard to even breath.  
The air is thick-heavy, soaked in burnt-electric-terror and biting-stinging-pain the steals into his lungs, into his blood until his heart is thump-thump-thumping in his chest so loud, so pained that he’s sure it will give out. The bond lets him hear the racing of the Hycis children, their rock-armour hearts beating and in an out of time with the song of their fear. Screams and cries when they see blades and armoured strangers that might hurt them.  
 _They’re going to hurt us, they’re going to kill us, we’re all going to die—_

Valion stumbles back, into Rayon, who has met nothing but a dead end and joined him here, down in _Genwar’s_ core. Worry twists his face as he hears the thundering of Lance’s heart too-fast, too-loud. But Valion can’t remain afraid. He’s found the children, the warmth of hope telling him all he has to do now was take them to the surface.   
But how, is the question, one that can’t be answered as Lance chokes on the wails and the pungent aroma that will surely suffocate him. They won’t listen, they’re too scared.   
_But he needs them listen. He needs to get them out._

“Valion!”   
He turns, met with the Vhoadan. He’s panting hard, bearing more wounds than when he last saw him. It makes his stomach turn.   
“Figured I were going the wrong way when all I hit was their Djalg hangar. Wasn’t as empty as I liked, but I figured out how to break the door, and now they’re going to have to find the long way around. I also might’ve tripped an alarm,” Leonel says, wincing as he rubs his forehead, smearing away the slow trickle of dark blood that starts up again as soon as his hands is removed from the wound. 

Now there’s three of them to help escort the Hycis children.   
But to the young, there are just more to kill them.   
_They’re going to hurt us, they’re going to kill us, we’re all going to die—_

“Come on,” Lance yells, knowing there was no need for sneaking. The guards were dead, the were none in the corridors nor tunnels. Besides, the screams of the children would be enough to attract attention when they began fleeing. If not, then at least before the Galra noticed their slaves were gone, and decided to come check on the offspring of their prisoners.   
Hopefully the Hycis themselves would find them first.

Some of the children had stopped screaming. Many of them remained afraid.   
It was only the older ones that stepped closer to Valion, but not listen, but to hold up rocks and fists in attempts to protect themselves and those that cannot stand up and fight. 

“We’re not here to fight you. We’re here to take you to you families,” Valion yelled again, eyes sweeping the countless numbers, fearing this mission already in vain. He was regretting his decision to not wait for the parents.  
But regrets were for late. Action was for now. 

And there they came, with smiles and hope and warmth that drowned the darkness in sunshine, fresh spring blooms, and a mother’s love that made Lance think of home, of _her_ embrace.

Uilt’xen took the lead, up, up from the gloom and the heart of the planet to the freedom of open skies, two young children in her arms.   
Blood-drenched and battered, but a beacon of hope that took them from their prisoner of which they’ve been trapped for too long. Kenmare ran beside her with his own quarry and Leonel forging on ahead with Rayon to make sure the way was clear.   
Valion was the last to retreat from _Genwar’s_ heart. Three Hycis, barely weeks old, clung to the scales of his armour, another on his back and one in his arms. They were heavy for their size, born from the rock of _Genwar_ herself, but that was no excuse to slow the warrior down as he charged forward, ignoring the choking of his throat, the desperate need to run from the burning-terror-fire-deep-snow-ashen fear that this was as close as they would come to escape. 

“We’re almost there,” he tries, sounding as strangled as he feels, and it does nothing to the tightness of his throat. But maybe his heart doesn’t feel as heavy, and he’ll accept that over nothing as he runs and runs _and runs and runs._

And runs right into the Galra.

__

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_“Whatever you do, come back to me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *DUN DUN DUN*


	31. A Want For… Something... Anything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith needs answers. If the team are losing hope for finding Lance, then the Red Paladin is going to go to someone that he knows will help him. Needless to say, the team aren’t letting Keith go alone, and they’re not about to back away from the one chance they’ve found that might lead them to Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because I didn't have enough OCs, let's introduce a few more.

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Marmora Base in Filarel’s Core

_Everything hurts._

It’s the constant stress of worrying, the overtaxing of his body, the complete drive that leaves him exhausted no matter how much he knows he has to keep on going, he has to keep looking, _Lance is relying on him._

Keith’s body is reaching the limit to what his body can handle on pure determination alone. Even when everyone tells him to stop, to slow down, catch his breath, catch some sleep and start again tomorrow. But what if he does? What if Keith stops before the finish line, lets himself sit and wait until he thinks he can move again, only to find out that waiting lost him the race. _That Lance was already dead—_

_“Pattit,”_ Antok offers as greeting, patting Keith’s hair when he gets close, simply because he knows it annoys the Red Paladin. As always, Keith bats him away, gifting him a scowl and his own customary insult, even if he didn’t know the meaning of Antok’s nickname for him.   
“Enough with the formalities. Regris said he might’ve found something, so I came here for answers, not to make small talk.” Antok’s tail flicked, but with his mask still in place, Keith had nothing else to judge that he wasn’t laughing at the boy’s expense. Before any sort of claim for a fight could be sought, a commotion sounds out from the far side of the hangar.   
It’s Kolivan and another, arguing between themselves whilst flanked by only a handful of other Blades. He sees Shiro in the second and it angers Keith. Antok saves him with a grounding hand on his shoulder, the pain of the too-tight grip welcomed as Kolivan and the other’s approach, many turning from the main group until three remain: Kolivan, Regris and another by the name of Chejva. She was the tallest of the three, which was surprising considering Kolivan’s own height, but registering her long neck, long limbs and longer tail, Keith put it down to the quirk of her species. He wasn’t particularly happy standing next to her, looking like a child. And with his near-uncontrollable anger, he felt like one too.   
It didn’t do much in the favour of his emotions. 

“And I say it’s a waste of time, resources and effort,” Chejva says, her curt tone pulled down in anger, mask abandoned to allow her brow to furrow down upon one singular eye, the distaste only hardening when she met Keith’s gaze. “You claim alliance with Voltron but they don’t even trust you to tell you the truth. And when they do, it turns out that the one they’re searching for _chose_ to leave them. I say good riddance.”   
“And I say keep talking and you can see what the world likes like two foot off the ground,” Keith snarls, blade already in hand. Chejva snorts, but a raised hand from Kolivan silenced the pair of them. “Enough. We’re not here to fight.”   
“No, we’re just peddling semantics and avoiding the truth of the matter.” 

Chejva raised herself higher. “More than a third of our efforts have been withdrawn from the frontlines in order to track down the Blue Paladin, all of them ignoring anomalies in favour of following the patterns of Galran ploys because we were told he may have been their prisoner, or at least led to believe he was as such. And then, being told that the _culm_ in question _ran away_ says he doesn’t even want to be found. So why bother searching for him when we should be focusing on training harder and bolstering our attack so we can be a viable force against Zarkon.”   
“Because Lance is the Blue Paladin.”  
“Last I checked, your Princess took that mantle.”   
Keith’s eyes narrowed. “She claimed that title without consult. She is no Blue Paladin of mine.” 

Apparently, that amused the Galran-half. “Oh, another who casts asides allies for the sake of the inferiors. Maybe you should join the human you love so much and step down as Paladin and let another who is serious about winning this war take your place—”  
“That’s _enough_ Chejva. Go back to your station and monitor the transmissions. Pelax is due to report in soon and Thrigg is bringing resources from _Everall.”_ Although disrespectful to Keith, Chejva follows Kolivan’s orders without complaint. Or, without vocal complaint. 

Without an unnecessary audience, the Marmoran soldier turns to Keith. “Chejva was testing you. You responded in anger.”  
“Perhaps because I’m angry? Doesn’t matter does it, she’s only—”  
“She’s right, is what I’m saying,” Kolivan says, motioning for Keith to follow along path he had been walking before. Regris and Antok with him, they headed away from the main hangar and the waiting Blades to an annex. Regris sat himself behind a console while Kolivan took the place of Shiro and delved out his own little lecture like the good space-Uncle he was.   
“Chejva is among those that first set out to search for your companion. They searched within the parameters of Galran action, ignoring neutral craft. If the Blue Paladin ran, then he would’ve fallen within the category of neutral craft. If there was a chance of finding him, it would’ve been in the first movements of his departure. With you telling us now that what we were first told wasn’t the truth…” Kolivan sighed, a hand to his brow in his own attempts to conceal emotions. After having lectured Keith countless times on the fault of compassion and feelings, then there was little he could do but repeat the logical side of arguments until Keith decided to listen. But they were a long way off to being on the same page.   
All Keith wanted was help finding Lance. That was why he had come to the Marmora, and their small outreach base at the centre of _Filarel’s_ moon. 

Kolivan had contacted the team a month prior, letting them know the base existed and that it was the central position for the Blade’s movements in the nearest quadrant. Shiro and Allura had come here then, Pidge included, to relay what information they could while covering up their mistake in allowing the Trigamon to infect Lance with _Sugkie._ They had told no one of this, the lie given because they had fooled themselves it was for the sake of maintaining Lance’s reputation as a Paladin; someone who wouldn’t turn their back on the cause. Rightfully done, if Chejva’s reaction was anything to go by, but it didn’t mean that it was right. Or maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t, maybe— _oh who fucking cares!_

“Lance is gone. That’s the truth you needed to know, nothing, more,” Keith snaps, patience wearing thin. Worn thin. He wasn’t one for waiting and allowing words to cull his mind and curl his tongue. With war at his throat, even in space he couldn’t find a moment to stop, breathe, ground himself. With Shiro’s words, he had focus, but every day with the universe’s weight getting heavier and heavier, and less hands to help him hold it up… Keith wasn’t coping. Not really. 

Kolivan saw, and _rightly,_ didn’t make to continue his lecture. 

“We may have learnt of something of importance. But first—” Kolivan says, pausing to turn, looking back to the hangar, “—there’s someone who wants a word.” 

Keith turns too, not sure who he was expecting. He curses when he sees the Lion land, the back of his head considering Zarkon an easy foe to fight against. But instead he’s going to have to face the Black Paladin.

_Fuck._   
_Shit._

_Fucking shitting bloody fuck, fuck, fuck fuck fuck—_

“Keith.” 

Fuck. 

Keith wants to ignore Shiro, too busy wishing for Red to leave him for the moment, knowing if she kept pushing against his mind to offer comfort, he’d just end up shouting at her. Obliging, Red pulled away from him, turning to her brother who had appeared not to long ago. But the warmth of the Red Lion’s flame never truly left Keith alone. And he thanked her for it, the thought calming him.   
Catching sight of Shiro waiting for him in the middle of the hangar, arms crossed, stood as calmly as he allowed himself to appear just drags up all that irritation again. It’s only Black here, but that didn’t mean the Paladins hadn’t piggybacked Shiro’s lion to track down Keith, lest he abandon the team and take to the stars just like Lance had. 

Keith knows that he’s just there to give the boy a lecture. He knows; it’s the same pattern Lance was faced with every time they got back from a mission, every time Shiro waited for the Blue Paladin, the last to leave his Lion as he tried to put off the inevitable. Now it was Keith’s turn, although the circumstances stand to be different.   
He hadn’t returned to the castle. He’s run from it.

Keith knew he deserved the pre-planned speech. He had taken Red out again, without anyone knowing, other than Hunk, disappearing when Shiro’s back was turned after promising him he wouldn’t do it anymore.   
But rage at Hunk had riled him, and with nowhere left to turn, Keith had found Red, and before he knew it, they were shooting through the stars. He’d gone to _Nairn_ first, not far enough for the team to lose connection with his Comms.   
Besides, the system was empty of enemies, Galran and rogues alike. And empty of any sign of his missing friend. 

Searching saved the soldier from the boredom of slicing up the make-shift dummies that he’s assembled from the broken Gladiator parts. Pidge won’t move from the Bridge to fix the robots Keith has destroyed, and Hunk has made it painfully obvious that he refuses to, in hopes that it will lessen Keith’s time spent in the training hall.   
Yet neither action had stopped the boy from assembling what scraps he could find and hacking away once more. But non-moving targets irritated him, and he hadn’t remained for long. On the ship neither, taking Red and wishing upon wishing that he’d find _something._  
So, when Kolivan called out to him, Keith had replied, brought Red to _Filarel_ and learnt that the entire team had screwed up with their twists of the truth. _Just to save face._

“Keith.”   
The boy continues to ignore Shiro, disregarding the fact he’s being childish in the way he throws his tantrum, and _yes,_ he did say that he wasn’t going to take out Red again by himself, but this time he really had no other choice. With the training room pathetic in excuses for burning out his anger, and with his anger in full force after Hunk’s consideration… How could he stay there?

“Keith?”  
Keith doesn’t look at him, mind caught on the thought that maybe Lance used to think that ignoring Shiro would save him from a lecture. He wondered if he thought this when he saw their leader waiting, like a poorly concealed ambush that held as much threat to him as a Galra blade. At least, Lance had seen it like that: Shiro an enemy, not ally.   
Maybe Lance felt the same fear from the Leader as he did when facing the Galra? Was Keith apart of that? Had Lance feared him too, feared all of them, the fear continuing to steadily grow with every turn, every time the occasion saw him pitted another. Time and time again it had always been Shiro’s mantle to support the team and help them build on where there were weaknesses in their defences.   
To the boy, it was just another attack; Shiro armoured and armed, Lance bare and defenceless, chained to the spot and expected to take the lashings with nothing more than a _“yes Sir, no Sir, as you wish, Sir.”_

Keith didn’t fear Shiro’s reprimand, but it was unwanted all the same. Unavoidable, just as Lance’s had been.   
And so, he turned to face his Leader. “Look, Shiro, I know what you’re going to say, but I’m sorry I went out. Fine, I should’ve told you, but I can’t just sit around and—”  
“No, that’s not what I wanted to say.”

Keith looked up, surprised to see the solemn expression on the man’s face, matching his tone. “Hunk told me he made you angry. He wanted to come with me, to apologise, but he’s worried you won’t want to listen to him. He’s back at the Castle. They all are.” But the reminder of Hunk’s words was fuel for the embers in Keith’s gut.   
He glared in anger, the floor his target. “Hunk said—”  
“What was on his mind. He simply didn’t want Lance’s captured to be-all and end-all circumstance.” Shiro sighs, glancing up to the approaching Blades, their steps still slow to give the Voltron Paladins time to converse in private. “But I agree with you, he spoke out of term. Even he knows that. I think he just wanted to talk about his own worries and forgot himself. He cares, Keith, just as much as you.” The boy shook his head. He didn’t want to hear it. Not again.   
The reason he had left was to escape the rage he felt towards the Yellow Paladin, who claimed to be Lance’s friend, who wanted to give up and let him go—

“Truthfully, I never expected this.”   
Odd words that posed curious questions. Keith just tilts his head, meeting Shiro’s gaze, anger to Hunk forgotten in an instant. It’s because Shiro knew him, knew how to calm him or to take his mind from the problem, so he could step back and look at the entire picture. “Your anger. It remains on yourself, on the thought that you let Lance down, rather than blaming him for leaving.”  
“Because we didn’t do enough— _I_ didn’t do enough—”  
“But your anger. You haven’t turned it on Lance. For everyone else who let you down, you’ve grown angry of them. Your mom for leaving you, your dad too—”  
“He died,” Keith snapped. Shiro closed the distance, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “And you feel anger towards him for leaving you, no matter how many times you remind yourself that he had no control over that.

“But Lance did,” Shiro continued, lowering his head to catch Keith’s eye. The boy met his friend’s gaze, not caring for the faint misting of early tears that could be seen. Keith’s cried many a time when his parents were mentioned, but now they stand for another he holds dear in his heart. “I don’t blame him Shiro. I never will.”   
Shiro smiled. “I know. I just don’t want all that anger turned on your friends. You need to let it out, but let it out healthily. If beating up some Galra will help, then just make sure you’ve got someone watching your back to help you home.” Keith didn’t speak. Shiro hadn’t expected him to.   
He ruffled the boy’s hair, like he used to do when they were together back on Earth, the pair of them walking side by side, once again joining Kolivan in the holo-room, both ready to hear the new information that they’ve uncovered.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Marmora Base in Filarel’s Core

It isn’t long until the Castle and her inhabitants arrive at _Filarel,_ allowing Kolivan to reveal to the collective team the Blades’ recent findings regarding their current search for Lance. 

Pidge had yet to be a witness to the Marmora’s technological discoveries, but in the light of the invitation to one of their subservient bases, they felt little more than an itch of anticipation that this _news_ they had for the team would set them on the right path. In the beginning there was little in the ways of partnership other than the Blade’s promise that they would keep an eye out for Lance.   
_Keep an eye out._ Not actively search the cosmos for a sign of the Voltron Warrior that may or may not need their help. Even if they claimed him a vital instrument in Zarkon’s downfall, their attitude towards seeking him out was set on the back burner at best, their first most thought providing eligible bachelors to Blue’s empty chair.   
Even when Allura took the mantle, doing so in the privacy of the team, the Marmora did not relent in their choice that Lance was still secondary in the war. What _news_ could they have that would allow Pidge to forgive them so easily?

They gather in one of the alcoves just off of the main hangar. If Pidge was in the mood to analyse their behaviour, she’d come to the same conclusion as most that Voltron are still not trusted by the Marmora. But then, they are too busy focusing on Regris, who stands beside them at a console, manipulating the Holo-screen to project the quadrant twenty-one zeta-jumps from their position.   
From the star system that shows, neither colour coordinated nor labelled, Pidge’s memory serves them well in informing them and the rest of the team that the nearby system is in fact _Balter;_ a system left to the Marmora to scour after Shiro and Kolivan had divided the quadrants back when they first informed their “allies” that Lance had been “taken.” A ploy that Keith had said did more damage than good. 

Regris turned Voltron’s focus to two specific planets that orbited the same star: _Zaltarish_ and _Calarel._ Kolivan explained their interest, following their observations that the usual pattern of patrol and territory battles between Galra, civilian and rogue ships had been less than previously noted, considering one of their spies was a fleet commander who, up until recently had been called out to bring support to the Galra base residing on _Zaltarish._  
Before, little activity was a result, partial from the Marmora’s hand in dealing with local affairs. 

“We were under the investigation that the rogue activity had been wiped out by the Galra, until recently. First, Thrigg ran into the same ships some Phoeb prior, and just recently, the same ships were caught in a battle with Zarkon’s ships in the _Balter_ system, attacking _Zaltarish_ with the presumed plans to liberate the planet from the Empire’s control. It was, up until recently, a Galra operated system.”  
“What do you mean, _recently?”_ Shiro asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious. But then, the way that Kolivan words it makes it seem that the solution isn’t as simple as a _“no more Galra”_ solution. 

In fact, when Regris bought up the display – this time colour coded – that was the exact result; there was no sign of purple on the map. The Galra had been flushed out the system.   
“For now,” Kolivan said when Allura made to state as such. He gestured to recent readings that the Galra had made continuous efforts to drive out the rogues that were standing to be a serious threat to them being able to hold the _Balter_ system. As of two movements prior, the Galra have not had a steady anchor in the Balter system, and have pulled back to the _Talladega_ system.”   
They showed the team their recordings that showed the Galran base of _Zaltarish_ had been destroyed, the slaves on the farms freed and the planet itself abandoned by the populace, taking shelter on—  
“That ship,” Hunk said, pointing to the recorded display where the very familiar Pirate ship hung. “We’ve fought it before!” He doesn’t care that he’s interrupting Regris’s explanation as he points out the murky yellow spaceship to the rest of the team, casting their minds back to the very beginning when the Pirates threatened the Trigamon, then the aliens turned on their saviours themselves for reasons unknown. 

“We chased off that particular ship only once before, during a raid on a civilian ship in the _Nairn_ system, near the asteroid field,” Shiro explained when the rest of the Blades were left confused by the other Paladin’s outburst. “The ship is a part of a four-strong group that were known to be attacking indiscriminately around _Nairn_ and the surrounding systems. The last we dealt with them, they attacked a ship, but then the crew onboard turned on Lance, poisoning with _Sugkie._ They, and in effect, _we_ drove Lance away…”  
Pidge isn’t listening to everyone’s explanations, just staring at the screen, a flicker of light in the deep recess of their mind, once suffocated by confusion and guilt, now burning softly with the connection that they hadn’t thought to consider… 

They knew the Trigamon had hunted Lance, or at least three of them, always separate from the main crew that called for Hunk and Pidge’s help fixing the ship, called Allura and Shiro to them in hopes of amalgamating an alliance between them— But what if that wasn’t true. What if they were posing, not to be saved, but to be a distraction so the other three could hunt down Lance and drug him repeatedly until he couldn’t differentiate lies from reality.   
They weren’t the only reason Lance had turned on the team, but the Trigamon had a hand in twisting Lance’s mind. 

Yet when the team found the pod, their minds never returned to the Trigamon; small, seemingly weak creatures that wouldn’t stand a match against Lance, wouldn’t hurt him, kill him… _use him, maybe,_ but it didn’t change the fact that the team’s focus was Lance; _just_ Lance, _only_ Lance—

“The Trigamon and the pirates were in league this whole damn time and we didn’t…” Pidge’s brain was getting away from them, tumbling faster and faster, like they’re running downhill, trying to keep their feet as they pick up speed, the avalanche of emotion threatening to pull them down and bury them till they can’t think, can’t feel, can’t do anything but wallow in self-pity because _it was right there. Right in front of their fucking noses and all Pidge worried about was…._ Was what? Finding Lance? Then they would’ve done it by now, would’ve seen that the only ships in the area that could pick the pod up was that damn yellow pirate ship, regardless of the signal that told them they weren’t in _Nairn,_ but on the slip-side of _Nix._  
Slip-side of _Nix…_ But the reading wasn’t wrong. The pirates signal announced their position was in the _Karta XI_ system, and then, _what,_ just five hours later they were raining heavy fire on Keith and Lance as they scrambled to retreat from _Torous_ in _Ruse Minor._  
It didn’t make sense? _None of it made any sense._

Pidge hadn’t tracked the ships, having found no reason to. The Pirate’s pattern had been civilian ships, trade vessels and nothing more. They had taken the incident on Ruse Minor and put it down as a _fucking anomaly._ The Pirates were cowardly, conniving, devious little _Dahast_ that wouldn’t dare face the Paladin of Voltron. What reason was there? What was the reason to, when the risk of defeat far outweighed the chances of victory against all… five… 

Lance had been alone.  
He was in a pod. He didn’t have Blue. 

Lance had been _alone._

“Oh my god, it’s so fucking obvious!” Pidge yelled, silencing their team and the Blades that had begun to dispute…. Whatever, it didn’t matter, they hadn’t been listening, they had been patching the holes, filling the gaps, finding the missing puzzle piece that they needed to see the whole picture.   
“We ignored them. I didn’t even look into their disappearance anymore after there were no more attacks, no more distress signals that didn’t lead to Galra raids. I assumed they had disbanded, or the Galra had finally stepped in and taken them out. But it’s so obvious, because somehow, in some way they have jump-technology capabilities and they used that to take Lance—”  
“If its’ in standing that you’ve faced them before, as enemies, then perhaps they have not as such helped Lance, but taken him when he left the sanctity of the Castle. That may have been the, _who did you say,_ Trigamon?” Shiro and Hunk are nodding. Pidge too, but it’s a foreign experience; their body working while their mind coils in on itself, numb at the cost of sudden influx of thoughts. 

“While the Trigamons’ aim was to separate Lance from the crew, it ultimately may have been to turn him against you all. Lance’s departure may have not been to plan, and taking him was their next best option—”  
“Then he’s with them,” Keith says. Pidge watches him, hearing his tone, much lighter than it’s been in a long time. Because he’s heard what he’s been hoping for, for the last six months: _Lance’s whereabouts._

“Then we have to find them—”  
“Not just yet,” Antok interrupts, a hand on Keith’s shoulder to calm him, or at least to reign in the boundless emotions that pull at his heart, his nerves, his mind, wearing him down and wearing him out. “It will do no good to hunt the ships with no definite proof of the Paladin being with them. We know not where they are, nor where they have been since the time of _Nairn_ and _Zaltarish.”_  
“Antok’s right. First, we must gather intel. If the ships stand as foe to the Galra, then they will not stand idle and let them run amuck. They will have the necessary information we need,” Kolivan said, a gesture to Regris who brought down the hologram from _Zaltarish,_ turning over instead to the _Leuen_ system. “Thrigg didn’t only learn of the pirates, but also of an incoming Galra fleet, its destination _Genwar_ in the _Caesura_ system.” 

He turned back to the Voltron team, eyes cast over their hopeful faces. “I suggest your next mission will be to infiltrate one of their ships and learn of the pirate’s location, and perhaps even talk of trade. If the Galra are no longer fighting them, then there is a good possibility that they have secured safety in exchange for the Blue Paladin.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Orrin  
 **Location:** Space

The date marked one hundred and fifty-two days since Lance’s disappearance when Voltron were to stand against a fourteen strong Galra fleet. It was their first serious mission without Lance. 

At first, Coran suggested that not all of the team engage, fearing more than just their safety when Kolivan told them of the Galra’s movements. The younger three fought him, of course, knowing that their only course of action was recon. Before a rift could weather between them, Shiro took control, stating that it would not be an “all guns blazing” battle, but simply infiltration, like they had done countless times, only on a smaller scale. This time, however, they had the backup of the Marmora, who would be beside them during their infiltration, and their numerous ships on standby to scatter should the fleet discover the castle, currently taking shelter in the shadow of a large, hollow asteroid. 

Victory was in favour of the Paladins, who were lucky to have their allies already known somewhat on the fleet, with one of their Blade agents, by the name of Thrigg having overlooked their dispatch from _Talladega._ This was a bonus, with Thrigg ordering that ninety percent of the crew to be androids, rather than waste thinking, breathing soldiers on a simply errand such as armouring a nearby mining facility; _Genwar_ was their location after the slaves of the planets, denizens themselves, had shown signs of revolt.   
The fleet wasn’t solely for Genwar, having instructions to continue on to _Zaltarish_ and mount a full out destructive protocol, destroying the planet and the rogues that would be taking shelter on their planet, meaning, only a handful of soldiers needed to be Galra, and with them remaining solely on the brig, they would be easy targets to sneak past. 

This knowledge greatly clamed the older Altean, but still he didn’t hide his displeasure at the sheer size of the fleet against Kolivan’s plans of only three Paladins and the support of his own Blades to take part in the mission.   
But Shiro agreed and there had been nothing left to dispute, other than who rides with who on entry. Green was their obvious choice, and the unanimous decision had Pidge sitting in the pilot seat, Keith at their side, Antok by their other while Shiro and Regris waited in Green’s maw, ready cut into the hull once the Green Lion found an anchor in the fleet’s blind spot. 

Hunk and Allura were waiting outside the castle, in their Lions, only to engage _in dire need._ Shiro had been very specific on that part, and the Princess, never having been ordered before, didn’t have the nerve to question.  
No one was quite ready to force Allura’s hand in galactic warfare when the only training she had had been hand to hand combat in the training room. It wasn’t to say they hadn’t allowed her to pilot Blue, but Blue herself hadn’t been ready to open up just yet. But with the chance of finding Lance hanging in the balance, the old lion had finally relented, and open her heart, allowing Allura access to Blue’s cockpit.   
The good news was marred by the blood stains found on the pilots’ chair. 

Once aboard the ship, it was Shiro took point, Pidge and Regris running side by side as Keith and Antok brought up the rear. It wasn’t just Pidge’s wishes alone that they had a sharpshooter watching their backs. A look to him behind, and he ahead, and Pidge knew they all hoped for the same in tactical advantages. 

Metal footsteps echoed from behind and then they’re pushing themselves behind the doorway as a single android makes its pre-programmed rounds through the warren of corridors that make up the lower levels of the warship. Two steps closer to Keith’s position and the thing hasn’t got time to react before its head rolls off. Antok gives an approving nod, but before they can run from where they’ve stashed the body, Keith grabs the head and is holding it out to the youngest Paladin.   
“Think you can get anything out of it?” Keith asks. He had caught it before it could fall and make a noise, as not to attract any other sentries with their frequency sensors in the near vicinity. Another nod of approval from Antok. 

Shiro kept an eye on the corridor whilst they crouched in the small alcove, Regris hacking into a storage door lock so they have a better hiding place, while Pidge turns the decapitated head over, to the frayed wiring now on show. “I don’t know. Maybe. If I can get it’s ID, maybe it can be a key to locked doors. If there’s a programmed patrol route, then there is bound to be a map somewhere inside. Maybe even multiple, for various battle cruisers.   
“But like I said earlier, the thing I really want is some sort of main HUB or maybe locations on access ports into the ship’s system. We can hack into the entire fleet and transmit new programmes through the Android’s shared links. Maybe an EMP.”  
“And what about searching for clues on Lance.” 

Pidge’s face went blank, all emotion fading before anyone had a chance to guess what they were feeling. “There won’t be any,” they say, a scowl to Keith before he can argue and give away their position. They’re in the storage lock that Regris unlocked, but that doesn’t mean their safe from being found.   
“Look Keith, if the Galra had Lance, then Zarkon would broadcast it across the entire Universe, gloating in our faces and breaking the wills of all those that stand against us. Even if he’s not there in his palace, or whatever, Zarkon would have pre-recorded torture broadcast as Lance is shipped to _Everall.”_ A glance to the Blades confirms their theory, but the youngers point is not that finding Lance will be a synch now they’ve infiltrated the fleet, but more to the focus that Lance isn’t a Galran prisoner. Isn’t now, nor has he been.  
“This mission’s target is information on the pirates. We’ve all but figured out that Lance has been taken by them, so now we locate _them._ Find the pirates, find Lance.” 

Keith looks like he’s going to argue, but Shiro steps in before voices can be raised. “First, we have to get to the brig, but to take out power we need a console. To do that, we’re going to need to find one.” He turns to the half-Galra that stands guard on the door. “Can you guard Pidge. We need time to complete the hacking. Until then, the rest of us will find a console that feed directly into the entire ship.” 

That’s the plan and there’s no argument from anyone, with Antok and Pidge following their own discovered plans to a two-levels-up security bay while Regris, Shiro and Keith are searching for a console. 

The three stole down the corridors, the three moving at their own pace as they search. Shiro has the benefit of already knowing the Android’s patrols, while Keith and Regris rely on him and their own quick instincts to either take out the robot that spotted them or to hide from the patrol. They scour two levels before facing any real work force, but even then the hangar in which the Android are guarding has enough room for the three of them to bypass with ease and they’re two floors up from where Green has been stashed in a cargo hold whose doors have mysteriously _“jammed.”_  
Its then that a strange tapping calls the three’s attention, Regris not deterred by the sound as he locates it to Antok’s knuckles, rapping on a wall to get their attention and draw them to the console room that Pidge had discovered after deciphering the basics from the robot grunt Keith had decapitated. The thing is by their foot, hooked up to the HUB with wires, continuing to fizzle and spark in protest to the efforts, but after another few minutes which involves beautiful cussing, _(and many raised eyebrows from Shiro),_ the thing stops its objections and the screen that they’re sat in front of lights up with Galran text and cross sections of the ship.

“Took you long enough,” they snark, but its all barb no bite, waving hands at the screen. Without invitation, Regris joins them, a data-chip in hand, slotted into the ship’s internal system and he begins to copy all the information he can while Pidge is searching for the quickest way to the brig.   
“Alright. Looks like we’re in luck. This is just a support and supply ship. Thrigg’s instructions state that the only flesh soldiers will be on the bridge, as Captain, Lieutenant and a handful of officers. The numbers on this ship are less than half, but most of their cargo stands to be androids ready for shipment to _Genwar_ and the bulk force of their army for protocols leading to _Zaltarish’s_ destruction,” they say, pulling words from ones and zeros.

“We’ll be able to overpower all the engines, but I’m going to need direct access with the mainframe. There’s either a data dump on the nineteenth floor, or we can aim for the main console on the Bridge.”  
“Nineteenth floor won’t be as guarded,” Shiro began, but Pidge bit their lip, shared glance with Regris. “I agree, but—”  
“We need stealth Pidge, so less droids means less chance of getting caught. I vote the nineteenth floor.”  
“I get that, and yeah, we’re all about the stealth,” they argue, “but the Bridge will have locked files, transmission logs and the commander’s private files that I won’t be able to access from any sideline server.”  
“You need the bridge for the sake of detailed accounts of run-ins with the Pirates,” Regris adds, speaking for the first time. His voice is soft, steady and sure, enough that Shiro stops to think over his words before charging ahead with the safest option. After-all, the information on pirates is the sole reason for this mission. There’s no questioning the next part in their plan.   
Shiro certainly didn’t need convincing. “Then the bridge it is.”

They moved quietly, Antok taking point this time. Shiro has already warned them about the sentries’ route, whilst Pidge pointed out the directions that would help avoid the bulk of the guards. That meant service vents and high up gangways.   
Between the five of them, they managed to get to the nineteenth, twentieth floor without problems. Twenty fifth saw them spotted by a rover-drone, but a projectile from Pidge and the thing dropped to the floor, dead as a doornail. _“No, no Pidge you’re not thinking big enough. We need an entire army of Rover 2.0s. The Galra won’t know what hit them!”_

Another ten floors were passed in silence, chasing the Red Paladin who has pulled ahead. Keith’s impatience had torn him from the group and he’s charging silently to the back of the ship where he knows the main elevator shaft will give him direct access to the brig and all the alien meat sacks well past their best-buy date. 

That’s when things start to go wrong.

The supply ship that Pidge said they were on? Yeah, that was three ship’s back and had no Galra aboard.  
 _This one_? Well, this one was indeed a support ship, but instead of being packed tight with soldiers and androids, it had been lightly loaded to make up for the fact it had been shipped from the nearby star system of _Balter_ as one of the remaining ships that hadn’t been wiped out by the rogues that attacked _Zaltarish._ That’s why there are few soldiers on board, and instead the deck holds more than a dozen Galra, conversing in sharp tones about their mission to _Genwar._  
It seemed the particular sentry Keith took down, out of the hundreds on board was one that was provided _from_ the supply ship to help man this vessel. 

The downside to androids is the fact that they only know what’s been programmed into them.   
And when the programme is wrong, then so is the idiot that is pulling incorrect data from them.

_“Sweet Quiznak,_ that was close,” Pidge forced out in nervous laughter, taking shelter behind the debris of the exploded wall, thanks to the Galra that opened fire the second that Keith broke through the elevator shaft. He’s beside the Green Paladin now, Shiro on the other side while Antok and Regris are pinned out in the corridor, unable to make any ground from the continuous lasers that fly of the Paladin’s heads. “Brainless, bumbling, impatient, dumb fucking—”   
“Alright Pidge, I get it,” Keith bit, ignoring Pidge’s rant directed at him and his stupidity, even though Shiro _specifically said_ that this mission was “all about the stealth.”   
“Git,” they bite, throwing debris as a diversion, only taking one soldier down with their electrified bayard before pulling it back in, ready for another shot. “You are so damn lucky that I cut all their communication fleet-wide, if not Allura, Hunk and all the Blades waiting on stand-by would be pulled into a firefight they have no business being a part of.” Problem is, Pidge couldn’t cut the communications throughout the ship without having warned the Galra there was an intruder onboard, and it’s only a matter of time before their position is flooded by enemy troops.   
They can’t destroy the forward module because they need it. All they can do is force their way into the Bridge and barricade themselves in whilst searching for another escape route. 

“When we get out of this, I’m making Coran teach us how to summon Blaster Marks,” Shiro growled, ducking from a laser blast that came too close for his liking, “Once we get Lance back, we won’t need him too,” Keith growled, lifting his head over the cover to look for an opening, only to have it yanked right back down away from the flurry of fire overhead, ducking again when Antok’s phaser took out three with precision. But the big guy’s fighting style was close up, as was all of them – sneaking up and dropping enemy with their blade, assassination style. They were just as unprepared with the firefight as the Paladins.   
There were no reactions from his words, but they were in battle mode. _Couldn’t really have themselves getting distracted right now._

“Pidge, hologram,” Shiro said, preparing himself for a full-frontal assault, having limited communication with the Blades behind other than three fingers held up and jab over his shoulder towards the open doors of the bridge. Hopefully they didn’t get anything from it and planned just to wait out Shiro’s on-the-fly plan before making their own move.   
“Pidge, be ready with that hologram.”   
“But it’s just a decoy Shiro. It’ll be ignored three ticks into being blown apart with laser guns,” the Green Paladin said, ducking as one Galra aimed for their head, hovering just a little too much above the top of the make-shift cover. “It’s a hologram Shiro, there’s no defence to their blasters.”  
“I know, but all we need is a split second to confuse them so we can cover ground. It’s that or remain as sitting ducks for the next elevator to come up, full of soldiers.”

“It’s not the only plan we’ve got,” the Red Paladin said, pulling his Marmoran dagger from its place in his sleeve. “Pidge, get your holo to run and, three steps in, jump.” They nodded, knowing not to argue, already positioning themselves for the visual distraction to comply with Keith’s plan. “This better work or I’m not forgiving you for landing us in this mess.”

Holo-Pidge charged the Galra, screaming for extra effect. Keith ran with it, using his height to see past and predict the Galra’s line of fire.   
As planned, three steps down the hall, the Holo-Pidge jumped. Keith threw his knife and dived through the fake legs, keeping up the appearance that the hologram was in fact the real Green Paladin.   
Now the Galra has two targets to focus on.   
Three, on the accounts of Regris who vaulted over Pidge and Shiro’s hiding place, dodging holo-Pidge just as Keith had done and they’re on the bridge together, the first line of soldiers wiped out. Antok and Shiro join them then, taking advantage of the confusion derived from the fact that the Galra can’t figure out why the Green one wasn’t hurt by their onslaught and _why is there a second one charging us?_  
Brute thought offered fire more lasers, so they did just that, too slow to dodge the Marmora Blade, too slow to react the sword that followed it.

“Pidge, Regris, get to work,” Shiro yelled, doubling back with the other two but not before slapping one opponent that had turned his gun on the Red. One soldier manages to slam his hand on an alarm and suddenly the entire bridge is screaming about the pests that have infested it. “Damn it, shut it off!” someone yells, Keith’s first thought to destroy the console that has all the flashing lights, but Regris is already there, ducked down in front of it, trusting the rest of them to defend him while he begins to strip away important information from the hard drives. The alarm isn’t even a thought in his mind; the soldiers onboard have already heard it, so there’s no hurry to turn it off. 

Pidge sends a lasso around one’s neck and yanks. It doesn’t get them far, but with Keith’s foot on their opponent knee-pit, they had an easier time pulling him down. Two more fell to electricity, the final two taken down by Antok and Shiro respectively. 

They stood panting, recovering from the loss of adrenaline. Pidge was the first to sheath their bayard, Shiro’s hand still glowing as he checked all his enemies were unconscious. Keith’s opponents were all dead.   
The bloody destruction lay about the room, focused near the doorway and sweeping left, the trail of blood still dripping from his bayard, another from his left hand, hung limply by his side.   
“Keith that was reckless—” Shiro began, eyeing the Red Paladin, who remained with his back turned. “It was necessary.”   
“It wasn’t—”  
“It was. Now help block the door. Pidge, whilst you’re downloading data, find us an alternate route back to Green.” Which doesn’t need to be said, because none of them really fancied themselves with fighting through the horde of Galran sentries. “Be quick Pidge.”   
“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” 

Antok has already barricaded the door, but Shiro and Keith reinforce it none the less, using debris from the room, even the Captain’s chair. There was only one door leading onto the bridge, so there was no fear of becoming surrounded.  
Now all that’s left it the waiting game. 

Pidge and Regris focused on their task of hacking, Shiro and Keith standing in silence while Antok crouches near the blockade. “You might want to hurry,” he says, standing straight once again unsheathing his duel blades. “It sounds like we have company.”   
In the quiet it was easy to hear the thundering of incoming sentries, their guns charged and their aim for none other than the five that had overthrown the bridge. They can hear the commands of a Galra who wasn’t present on the bridge demanding the barricade be blown apart, but the ship has nothing but laser fire, and it’ll be a long time coming for the individual shots to do enough integral damage before the barricade collapses. Still, the threat lit a fire beneath Pidge and Regris, working together, their fingers flying over the keys as they scrawled through reems of files, searching for anything useful, or at least anything that would relay to the pirate’s attacks against the Galra forces. 

“Keith come help me,” Pidge orders, and he doesn’t question the gremlin as he takes up position beside them, order to drag files onto a data chip they’ve got jammed into the central console. Antok is doing the same for Regis while Shiro takes a rogue gun from the floor, and finding a hold in the blockade, pin points targets to take out, reducing their numbers, buying more time. 

But time is relative in all terms, and there is no chance to delay the oncoming horde until they were on the doorstep.   
The elevator doors were flung wide and another battalion of sentries pulled out, scuttling like Spiders, the bulk of their bodies armoured just enough it would take more than a few well-aimed gun shots to take them down. But with only weak Galra lasers and Pidge’s grappling hook, remaining inactive as they, Keith and Regris barrelled through data streams, searching for _anything_ on the pirates, _anything on Lance…_

If only they had more time. 

“Antok, move!”   
Shiro saw it coming first. He wasn’t sure what it was; the small silver ball that glowed, it’s light ebbing until thudding dully, then brighter and brighter as all the air around grew cold.   
They dived back away from the barricade in enough time, the explosion small, but still enough to dislodge their attempts at barring the horde. The barricade as gone, the door already holding two sentries, four, eight—

“GET DOWN!!”  
It’s all the warning that is given before Pidge grabs a spare laser from the floor, turning its barrel to the door, then up. The Green Paladin lets loose on the ceiling, the sudden barrage on the already weakened support forcing it to collapse. Now the barricade is unbreachable.   
The only problem is, Pidge has cut off their escape, leaving no chance of an alternate route. 

They’re trapped.


	32. A Want For Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course fighting the Galra isn’t easy. If it was, the Empire would be long since defeated. But the team aren’t going to give up. They’re going to get themselves out.

**System:** Orrin  
 **Location:** Space

Shit, shit, _shit!_

They’re trapped, there’s no way out. Keith has already pulled off half the wall panels on the far side of the Bridge, hoping to find a vent, or some crawl space that will lead to another room. It would at least give them two different trajectories to charge when they attacked the Galra outside, still shooting at the barricade, trying to get in.   
They can’t take them out with the barricade in the way, but they can’t take the barricade down because it’s the only thing stopping them from being overrun.   
Pidge can’t configure a ship wide EMP without taking out the ship itself and warning the rest of the fleet that something has gone wrong with one of their support vessels. 

For now, the five of them are safe, even with the fleet just beyond them, but at the slightest note of trouble, they will be nothing but fire when the ships turn and take them out. And at the slightest notion that that is the fleet’s objective, the Marmora and the other Paladins will step in and fight to save their friends.   
They needed to do something before that became the only outcome. 

“Pidge, progress?”   
“Can’t talk too busy,” they say, which isn’t reassuring in the slightest, and can only mean they are nowhere near done with their efforts, and they need the others to watch their backs while they work.   
There’s no fight yet, not with the androids still chipping away at the destruction of the backwall. The collapsed ceiling has decreased the room’s size by a third, and despite there being enough room for Green to comfortably curl up, even stretch if she wanted to, somehow Shiro feels confined in the space.   
Perhaps it is the nature of being trapped itself that contracts his body, as he had been countless times, be it in a healing pod or a Galra’s torture table. It is a serpent of iron under his skin, constricting around his lungs, impossible to catch a whole breath. 

Shiro moves nothing but his eyes, his mind racing while every muscle stays rock still. He is the prey, yet there is no predator unless it is the one of his own making, with jaws on his neck and poison under his fingers, itching for movement, for release. His whole-body screams for freedom.   
It isn’t himself he fears for, but for Pidge, for Keith, for Allura and Hunk who will inevitable fall into the fight. He fears for the Marmora, who had no right to trust him when he couldn’t trust them with Lance’s secrets, yet here they are now, ready to fight, to die. And die they will, if not captured and enslaved along with the rest of the Universe, as Zarkon wishes. When they fall there will be no force strong enough to stand against the Empire, no one name for all to rally behind for one last stand against the enemy... 

While Shiro stands, unmoving, thinking himself into the apocalypse, he hears a bubble of laughter. It is his own, but not so, he realises when it sounds again and no heads turn to him with questioning gazes. _“See, this is why the entire team thinks together. When you do it Shiro, you always seem to trip on one thing every time and it drags you down.”_

Suddenly, he’s not on the Galra ship, but instead, he’s back on the castle. It’s the dead of night, he holds a warm drink in his hands, a light headache throbbing on the right side of his face; a mix between Keith’s kick from training and the nightmare that woke him up and pushed him out of bed.   
Lance sits opposite, perched upon the kitchen counter, legs crossed at the ankle. He holds his own cup, although his is empty because he always downs it when its hot. Says it tastes better that way. 

_“But I’m the Black Paladin. I should be able to strategize without being caught by my doubt. I need to always have a clear head, be subjective when it comes to—”  
“There’s nothing wrong with thinking of the worst-case scenario, and then planning for it, on the account of ‘just in case,’” _Lance says, pouring himself another drink and draining it just as fast. He usually had two or three while Shiro barely swallowed one on their many midnight encounters. _“But you get caught on the worst-case scenario until it’s worse and worse…”_

It’s a moment Shiro recollects; one of hundreds. But the Lance in his memory wants him to remember this one. 

_“… and worse is worse and worse until suddenly you look in the mirror and suddenly, you’re Zarkon yourself. Trust me, we’ve all had those nightmares.”_ Lance’s voice had shuddered, Shiro remember, his shoulders dropping as he too thought of horrors that haunted him, even when he awoke. But Lance wasn’t one to dwell on his own problems, and tonight was for Shiro’s sake, and that was why he kept talking, changed the trajectory of conversation, to get Shiro to focus on what Lance needed him to understand.   
_“Look, Shiro. I get it, we all get it. But you still forget; you may be the Black Paladin, but I am Blue, Keith is Red, and so on,”_ Lance says, his cheeky grin seeming less cheeky and more reassuring. But in his own, Lance-ish way. _“Voltron isn’t, ‘The Black Paladin, oh, and those other guys.’ That’s not how the team works. You maybe the leader, you give us guidance and help better us, but we’re all defenders of the Universe and we’re all standing against our enemies. We’re all there strategizing, all fighting together, supporting one another.” _

Lance’s grin softens, staring down at his cup. _“Do you remember the first night I found you?”_ Shiro did remember, now of course, after long hours of regretting his words, searching his mind for times when he could’ve spoken up and been the Leader Lance thought of him.   
But the he in his memories hadn’t remembered. _“Not really. It has been a while.”_ Lance nods, but he didn’t look up. _“I didn’t make you a drink. I didn’t even make myself one. Do you know why?”_ Shiro had shaken his head.   
_“Because I didn’t know how. The morning after, I spent hours with Hunk, getting him to teach me how to boil the sweet-bean just right without burning it, learning the basics of Alien additives so I could recognise the sweet ones, so that the next time the two of us would talk, I could make you a drink. Mama always told me words aren’t enough if there is no action to support what you say, and it’s not like I could’ve done your job for you or something… But I could make you a drink.”_

Lance had looked up then, eyes fixed with Shiro’s. _“I couldn’t make you that drink until I relied on Hunk for support. I couldn’t give my advice to you if I hadn’t learnt it from my Mama and my family when they supported me. If I didn’t have them, then who knows where we would be now._  
 _“And you, trying not to ‘burden’ us with the weight of being a leader, but Shiro, there are five of us. Five shoulders, seven when you include Allura and Coran, because they’re here too, fighting this war, defending the Universe. That’s what you need to remember.”_

“Five shoulders,” Shiro repeated, the word like a key that lifted the weight from his lungs and suddenly he can breathe again, suddenly he can think clearly. Worst-case scenario would be everyone’s deaths, but that can be avoided with a plan. 

“Pidge, progress.”   
“Almost down downloading everything. Saves me searching and only downloading the relevant stuff.”   
“Unless you downloaded an escape, that doesn’t help us right now,” Keith snarked, the fear that grows inside him needing release. The panels off the left wall are completely gone, the barricade weakening with every barrage the Galra throw at it. The holes which they’ve created are being used by Antok and the Red Paladin alike, copying Shiro’s example and are picking off sentries as much as they can with fallen guns. Buying time while Shiro thought, staring about the room at the consoles, the barricade, the broken ceiling, the Galra fleet beyond the window… _the window._

_I couldn’t make you that drink until I relied on Hunk for support._  
And Shiro couldn’t have come up with his plan if Lance hadn’t shown him first. 

“Pidge—”  
“Still not done yet Shiro, I need—”  
“I know, I just want to know if you can communicate with Green. Get her to abandon the ship.” The Green Paladin scowled, but didn’t turn from the screen where numbers were beginning to decrease with every file they took. “That will trap us onboard.”   
“We’re already trapped here, and we can’t get to her if she’s down in a cargo hold. We can get to her if she’s on the other side of the window,” Shiro says, already jumping over the first console to the base of the thick glass. It’s going to need a lot more fire power than what the five of them have. Maybe they’ll need Green too, but there’s also the horde on the other side of the barricade with their own fire power. And by the sound of the explosions, they’ve also got more exploding spheres. 

“Pidge, as soon as you get everything you need, open the hangar doors and get Green out so she’s ready to catch us when we blast our way out of here. Regris, can you get a link to Kolivan and the others. We need to tell them our plan has changed and we’re about to blow the ship up,” Shiro continues. Regris nods and gets to work, the sudden shift in all three’s attitudes calling Keith and Antok’s attention as they remaining trying to thin the Galra’s numbers. “You figured out an escape route?”  
Shiro points to the window. “There. We’re going to have the Galra help us destroy it, then we’re going to ride the after-shock out of the ship and to the Green Lion.” 

“I think I can do us one better,” Pidge grins, calling attention to their screen and frequency waves jumping to and fro. “We took control of the Bridge before the Galra could hide their communication lines. I’ve got highways into three other ships, so give the word and I can dismantle all the temperature regulators on their engines and overpower them. Give it about three Dobosh, and the ships will explode, causing a chain reaction that will take down at least half the fleet.” Their grin subsided only slightly when Antok rushed forward, abandoning his defence. “Regris, focus on the main ship. Vulgnar is onboard. He needs warning.”   
“Then that’s the plan,” Shiro nodded, looking to all as they agreed, already preparing themselves; Keith and Antok jumping the console which Pidge and Regris were still manning. “Pidge, any chance you can stick your Holo in front of the window so they start blindly shooting?” Keith suggests, rather than offering to stand up there himself and hope he can dodge all the fire in time. It would be risky at best, but with Pidge’s Holo there’s no chance of him taking damage; something the Paladin agrees to. 

“Alright, the three ships are starting to move,” they said, the ground beneath their feet juddering from the vibrations of the engines kicking into overdrive. They can see the fleet in front of them, two more pulling away at a greater speed than the one they were on. “Keith, Shiro, use the guns to blast the door, we need to help the Galra get through.”   
They do as they were instructed, Antok joining in and Regris protruding a small device the bleeped twice, and then exploded on contact with the ground. The ship shuddered, the walls and ceilings creaking as the barricade crumbled for the second time, revealing the sentries and their lasers. 

“Hey loser’s I’m up here,” Pidge yelled, but it’s not the carbon-copy, it’s their hologram who is floating off the ground, pretending to hang onto the window like there’s something to hold onto. The Galra don’t consider this, nor do they pay attention much more than _“enemy, fire!”_ and the entire room is lit up with light. The Paladins join in, attacking the window. There was no time for the order of “stop” to carry; the flesh and blood Galra Officer having seen the danger when the first crack sounded. Another blast of fire saw the paper-thin cracks spreading like cobwebs, criss-crossing, interlinking, the fabric of the glass coming apart as seams of weakness flurried from the source. 

“STOP!”   
But the order doesn’t apply to Regris, who pulls forward another small chip, slightly smaller than the last one. With precise accuracy, it sticks to the window at the beginning of its fracture, the trill of countdown ominous and frightening for all who know what is about to happen. 

The chip explodes.   
The window shatters.   
The team are flung into space. 

For Shiro, there have been plenty of times that he regrets what he’s said to Lance, and many times when he regrets that he hadn’t said anything. And in the instant when Shiro was pulled into the dark void of space, he wished that he had been there for Lance after he was thrown from the Trigamons’ ship following the explosion. Because it was _terrifying._

Not knowing which way was up, which was down. There was no ground beneath him, no certainty that he’d find stability in the ground again as his body tumbled into space, travelling faster than it ever should. He felt sick. He felt tired. He felt fear deep in his gut, like a blade of ice driven through flesh and blood and skin and _soul._  
Knowing what was to come didn’t lessen the fear, but for Lance he hadn’t known. It wasn’t his choice. There had been no chance to save himself from the seemingly never endless turmoil and the fear of choking on stale air when the oxygen ran out because he would be lost to space… 

For Lance, it must’ve been a thousand times worse. 

And suddenly, there is Green, her maw wide and welcoming. In one fell swoop she had caught the five of them, where they all held onto one another as they fell up and down and everywhere—  
“Quick, get us out of here,” a deep voice is yelling from somewhere beside him, Pidge answering in reply, the banging of fists on Green’s walls. Shiro pulls off his helmet. He can breathe. So he does, and again, and again, even as he coughs and splutters and nearly throws up all over his knees. 

“Shiro—  
“I’m good,” he groans, pushing away the concern and the hand that comes with it. “Just get… watch Pidge.”   
Green lurches, the sound of destruction beyond the lion’s walls and Shiro nearly throws up again. The dizziness swamps him still, Keith too who is holding onto the walls for support, but he’s smiling with a very Lance-like grin. “I get it. Where you got that idea from,” he says when Shiro can’t connect words to logic. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and pulls off his gauntlets.  
Keith is still grinning.   
“Lance would be proud.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Marmora Base in Filarel’s Core

They didn’t gather in the alcove this time, but somewhere deeper in the core of the planet, past twisting and winding tunnels carved through the planet’s frozen core. Lights pulsated in the walls, the floor nothing but rock with no visible distance from this rock tunnel and the last one, meaning the second that Keith gets lost, he’s going to be lost for a while. It’s probably a natural defence for raiders too, confirmed when Lyla gives the tour, having accompanied Keith, Hunk and Pidge from the infirmary.   
No one was badly injured during the mission, but Shiro and Regris came off worse with the “propelled through space” plan, affecting both their ears and inadvertently, their ability to walk. While being treated, the younger three had been left to wait. Whilst it being their only option, it didn’t sit well with Keith, so, noticing this, Hunk and Pidge asked if there was anywhere where they could go to begin shifting through the files obtained from the Galra ships. 

“Here, this room should be more than adequate,” Lyla says, directing them to a room, resembling more of a cave than the rest of the base. It holds luminous mushrooms that act as the light source, although several consoles have been fitted, including a holo-pad, just like the one in the alcove, which lets Pidge throw up all the data on screen at one time. There’s not much to see considering it’s in coded files, and Keith can’t help because he doesn’t read _code,_ but it’s easier to sit and support Hunk and Pidge as they work rather than wander the tunnels and get himself lost.   
It turns out the mushrooms can double as seats, what with how squishy they are. They’re similar to unpoppable bubbles full of warm water and provide perfect comfort for the few minutes that deem Shiro enough time to jump in the healing pod and revert his ear canals back to their perfect working order. 

Pidge had long since got bored of their tedious work, but with the knowledge that this was simply another step in their efforts to find Lance, there was no complaining.   
By the time the rest of the team gathered, they have already de-coded several files, but there’s nothing on pirate activity, nor prisoner records (just in case). A lot of it was conversation trails with other ships, skimmed through in case there was some mention of pirates that was buried under the banality and prosaic drone of Empire propaganda and updates in the Health and Safety protocols.   
Keith was surprised, unlike Pidge and Hunk who weren’t, when considering Zarkon’s controlling nature and the fact that the entire race of Galran’s had achieved so much. There had to be at least _one_ Galra with a working brain in the entirety of their army. 

Even as Hunk and Pidge discarded the vast majority of useless files, there was still too far much for them to go through manually, as well as all the decoding and such, considering that the information taken spanned back months. There were countless strategy meetings, messages exchanged, meetings recorded including lower ranking soldiers, all the way to Commanders of fleets coming together to overthrow entire star systems in one continuous invasion. 

It wasn’t that the information wasn’t useful, it certainly was, and there were plenty of treasure troves that would give Voltron and the Blade the advantage… It’s just, there wasn’t the information that they all wanted. 

By the time the Blades had gathered, Pidge and Hunk had finished decoding all the files, fifteen percent having been read and all fifteen percent thrown to another console for storage, for further analysis later. Regris had joined them, Lyla too as well another Blade who was quick with reading, scrolling and deciding whether or not the file needed transferring or just being wiped. 

For three Varga, it was the same story, and using a system that focused on locating keywords and synonyms linking to identify trends relating to prisoner logs. Ordering the data chronologically, Hunk had taken the task of sorting though it all, and although he was yet to finish his findings, he was content with the lack of data he was finding so far.   
“The files date back Phoebes, around the time when we first had a serious altercation with the Galra in the _Javeeno_ System. I’ve scanned through them since the date of Lance’s disappearance, and nothing has come up for him. Nothing in the closest twenty systems actually. So, we know now for sure, the Galra haven’t picked him up. I know we all hoped as such, what with Zarkon’s love of bragging,” Hunk grumbled, his smile quickly reappearing, “but now we know for sure that it is the case and Lance isn’t their prisoner.”

“What about a trade. Nothing that would’ve happened yet, but if we’ve considered the pirates having Lance as their prisoner, then to secure their safety, perhaps there was promise of a trade,” Allura said, stood by Hunk, reading through the data he was sorting through, yet his files only focused on prisoners, transfers and prison listings and those held. Trade and contact with independent sources were limited at best, considering the Galra’s views on other races, but such files were yet to be searched for. “I’ll take a note Princess.”

“In the meantime, I’ve been able to track the Galra’s recent patrols, as well as the nearest quadrant of control.” Pidge took the floor, playing Tetris with the files up on the holo display until all that remained in the centre were several maps of the universe, overlaying one another, and a quickly-drafted overlay featuring the Castle’s flight course, dating back to the week of anchoring above _Nairn’s_ asteroid belt when they were fixing the Trigamons’ ship.

“Here’s us now,” she said, pointing to a gold blip on the map, partly simulated with a pale blue blip indicating Filarel. It would be later changed considering it was Marmora occupied, but with the Galra’s inanity concerning their enemy’s whereabouts, according to their file, the blue blips meant uninhabited and useless, in the grand scheme of things. Pidge wasn’t about to tell them how wrong they were. 

“Here’s the fleet’s flight pattern,” the Green Paladin continues, pointing out the purple line leading from the _Talladega_ star-system, taking the long way around _Leuen,_ to _Balter,_ where they had been heading to destroy _Zaltarish_ once had for all.   
“But _Zaltarish_ wasn’t their final mission. It was just a chance to warm their guns, so to speak.” As they spoke, Pidge tapped the keys, several red blips appeared, all along the line of the Galra trail, and then again, another tab and suddenly the star systems were littered with a frosting of red lights, some small, some with a secondary red ring around them, making them look large and foreboding. There were only three that had a ring around them, but also a Galra letter underneath, the red standing out even more. 

“These are all Planets with Galra-operated bases,” Pidge explains, the red rings meaning the base was built on the planet’s surface, while ordinary blips showed orbiting security stations. The ones labelled there,” they said gesturing to the one in _Valfur_ and _Peragm,_ “are heavy duty bases for factories. I’m assuming ships and their robot army.”   
“And this one?” Kolivan asks, gesturing to the red light in _Caesura,_ “what’s this one’s function?”   
“ _Genwar?_ That’s a mining facility, and the fleets main goal. By the records, the bulk workforce are the enslaved denizens and by what I can make out, they’ve revolted. That’s why the fleet was called. They’re… Hycis, I think that’s what they’re classed as, unless that’s a Galran insult because it doesn’t translate—”  
“No, that will be the name of them. They are subterranean, making them useful for the Empire as miners, much like the Balmeran Race that have to mine their own homes. The Hycis are the same.” It’s a sobering thought, and the team quickly quietens down, many emotions churning inside them at the memories of the Balmera and the feelings towards these aliens in the same predicament.   
It is their duty, as Defenders of the Universe to free the Hycis, to stand against the Galra and their tyranny. But doing so will pull them away from their search for Lance, and although the files will go nowhere, the same can’t be said for their missing Paladin. If the stop for a moment, if they hesitate _for a moment,_ it could be in that moment when Lance is caught, sold, _killed—_

“We can’t ignore this.”   
It was Shiro. He was staring at the screen, the thudding red light his focus, but the Hycis not his only thought. “I know we’re running out of time. I know time is crucial with finding Lance, even more so now considering how long he’s been gone.” He speaks to silence but there is no doubt everyone is listening.   
“We can’t ignore the rest of the Universe. We can’t forget that there are those that need our help—”  
“And there are those that can give it.” 

Kolivan raises himself up, fixing the Black Paladin in the eye. “We are allies. While your mission remains to search for you missing Paladin, the Blade of Marmora will move against the Galra upon _Genwar.”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Marmora Base in Filarel’s Core

“Trust Shiro to be the one to fight the help he’s given,” Keith sighed, ringing his fists, ignoring the tiredness that the mission drew from him. His own stubbornness, combined with the need to know if their mission was successful is what keeps him from drifting off to sleep.  
“He’s not fighting Kolivan, he’s only seeking for the best solution,” Hunk says where he’s sat at a console, a frown on his face as he reads through a file Lyla has given him. “He knows that if we had come across the fleet by ourselves there would’ve been a moment where we just skirted around the edge because there was no direct link to Lance. It wouldn’t have been about saving ourselves from a battle we couldn’t fight. It wouldn’t be about considering the damage they can inflict on other planets. And it’s not just that fleet, but all the Galra we’ve ignored up until now,” Hunk adds before Keith can argue that facing the fleet would’ve been suicidal without Lance. 

“We drew our attention away from the big picture and in doing so endangered those that rely on us and empowered the Galra who no longer had to watch their backs for us. They’re been moving without restraint for the past seven months while we’ve been star-hopping.”   
“It wasn’t a pleasure cruise.”  
“But we’ve only engaged the Galra when they spotted us, or when we jumped in on their location by accident. We only chose to engage with them eighteen times,” Hunk argued, giving Keith a pointed look, “and that was only because we thought that there would be information on Lance.” 

“We weren’t at full strength, we couldn’t keep taking on the Galra. Pidge was always on the Bridge, Shiro was helping Allura train.”   
“And you were either starving yourself, over training yourself or running off with Red, taking on everything you found that could throw a fist back.” Hunk’s icy tone dares Keith to fight back, but he knows better and stills his tongue. Hunk nods in acknowledgement of his own victory.   
“Now come and help us by watching these. They’re transferred security feeds yet to be recorded with a transcript.” 

He sets himself up beside Pidge, ignoring their steady stream of grumblings, instead focusing on the tapes. There are normal security feeds in one file, focused on a planet’s docks, linked with a log of dates, times and ship details relating to the shipments and crew. Keith checks for records of prisoner transfers, but finding none, doesn’t bother with watching the remaining nine Varga.   
The next three are the same, the fourth a cargo hold, but the feed is damaged as it dies for two Varga, and when the feed comes back online, the cargo hold is empty and its on fire. There are no notes, no sound and nothing else in the file, so Keith passes it to Lyla to see if she can relate it to anything anywhere else that will suggest if it was a planetary disaster or if its related to the Pirate attacks.   
His hopes are dashed however, when Lyla informs him it is the effect of the Blade’s attack, and the file is quickly transferred to another console for further analysis at a later date. 

By the twenty-first tape, Keith has seen six more are dock feeds, four being the execution of alien prisoners and four the destruction of unwanted planets, the reasoning simply _“because they Galra could.”_ It’s not just that, there is probably reasons like controlling the captured populace and warning of other factions in the system, reminding them of the Galra’s might, but other than that, the denizens were peaceful and hadn’t warranted their own murders. 

One file contained several propaganda recordings, but knowing not to test his anger, Keith had passed them to the other Galra, all about ready to go and find the Marmora’s training hall to work out his stress on punching bags, be them alive or just dummies. That is, until he picks a file at random, mid-way through the collection that sits before him. When the feed starts, there’s not much to see; just and endless expand of black, like those home recordings where someone forgets to take off the lens cap before they start recording. 

As predicted, it isn’t long before biggest display begins to flicker, the feed panning until a planet comes in view. The quality is shit at best, stealing details, but the Galra orbiting base is big, shiny, and hard to miss. 

This feed wasn’t from the fleet, and the lack-of-quality gets Pidge to lean over and comment that it’s been sent in a cryptic file where the code hasn’t been completely cleared. Doesn’t matter, Keith can see clear enough, slumping forward as he reaches out, making the feed speed itself up until it’s running eight times faster, and the ships that fly from orbit to surface are flashes of light alternating in direction like the planet and station are playing tennis. 

“That’s _Genwar,”_ Pidge says from somewhere near his elbow. “I read the log on it. It says the Galra claimed it fifty Phoeb ago. They want it for its natural source, some sort of destructive quartz they can use to manufacture weapons.”   
“Then it needs to be taken back, not just for the sake of those imprisoned, but everyone else who the Galra will use those weapons.” 

Keith continues watching, in the meantime reading through the file that Pidge had found early, tagged with the planets name. It was created the weeks prior to _Genwar’s_ capture, and updated only days afterwards and not much else. Pidge found several more files, identified by her synonym programme, searching for _Genwar’s_ tags. It appeared several times in listings for enemy planets, minable planets, key planets and such, as well as an order for the design of a base. “The blueprints might be useful for later, regardless of who goes ahead with the mission of liberating _Genwar.”_  
“Good idea,” and that’s Pidge set off on another mission, giving Hunk his own half of the files, which he shares with the Blades. 

“We might be able to find a record of where they hold the prisoners, maybe even a weakness we can exploit to get in…” Keith trails off, his focus caught by the screen beside him, still playing the footage of _Genwar._ The back-and-forth ships have stopped, the hangar doors open and what looks like their entire Djalg ships fly out, off screen. 

“You were saying?” Pidge asks, but Keith bats at the air, one hand swiping at the screen to take up more space on the display. “Hey Keith I was—wait, what’s that?” Their question is answered when an explosion rocks the far side of the base. “I think it’s an attack.”   
“Pan the camera right. Who’s fighting.”   
“It’s not live Pidge, it’s only a recording.” But they didn’t need to pan, not when a familiar spaceship flies into view; a murky yellow pirate ship with a red-painted hull. 

“It’s the Pirates,” Hunk breathed, watching two more join the fire fight, just as another squadron of Djalg flew from the planet’s surface, taking up battle formations as they circled the enemy. Like a swarm, they surrounded one of the ships, flying in such a way they were forcing the pirate ships to break their formation. And the Galra would’ve succeeded, had the pirates not had their own fighter jets to relay fire and quickly cut the Galra’s numbers down. But more kept coming and more would continue to come.   
Lasers, fire, explosions and lights, until there was nothing but black. 

The feed was cut. 

“That was the pirates, wasn’t it,” Keith said, mouth feeling slack. “Those were… We fought those same ships. Two of them at least,” he says, knowing that they’ve found a previous location of the pirates, but _what else does it mean?_  
“The yellow one and the purple one. Looks like there are more this time, and they’ve turned on the Galra indefinitely.”   
“Now we know for sure; the Pirates are now on our side.”

“Pidge, when was that attack?” Hunk asked, abandoning his files to stand behind the Green Paladin, the keyword programme filtering _Genwar_ and _attack._ “Fourth cycle, seventh solar orbit since battle—This attack happened sometime last week, maybe a little less.”  
“Then the pirates have freed _Genwar_ from Galra control. Yes?” Pidge can’t answer, but even before they try, Keith stands, and he’s already walking away. “Keith? Keith what’s wrong?”   
“I have to tell Shiro and the others. We’ve found him Hunk. Lance is there.” 

But the words the bring relief to the Red Paladin have no meaning to the other, who hasn’t made the same correlations in his mind. “What do you mean? Sure, the pirates were there, but we don’t know if Lance was even taken by them?”   
“Why else would they abandon their way of hunting civilians, who are undoubtedly easier to raid. Why would they fight the Galra?” He turned back to the others, their non-existent happiness showing him that they had not thought the same. 

Even since Lance had left Keith had been looking for a black cat in a coal cellar without a torch to aid him. It didn’t matter; he knew it to be there, his only task had been to find it.   
Now, Keith had caught a glimpse. He had seen the shine in the dark, the flash of it eyes in the darkness, waiting for Keith to reach out and touch it. He didn’t care if the damn cat claws him, he was going to catch it. 

“The Pirates could’ve done this a long time ago,” he says to the expecting silence. “But since they left, the last time we saw them was simply days before Lance’s own disappearance. And following that, something happened to them to make them change their plans of action. Something, or maybe, _someone_ convinced them to fight the Galra, instead of the rest of the Universe.   
“Maybe it was someone who was found in space, who needed somewhere to go.” 

_Why couldn’t they see?_   
_Why couldn’t they understand the anticipation in every heart-felt word?_

“The pirates always were weak, cowardly and sly. They fought defenceless ships and left the crew for dead. We know that. Before the Trigamon, we were left clearing up their mess, every time. And then, what? They suddenly stop? _Why? For what reason?”_

But still Hunk and Pidge cannot see.   
There is pity in their eyes, but he can see their hope, not long ago a bright flame, now dim. But still there. They’d never lose it, that was Lance’s friends. Fiercely loyal and devoted to him, since the day he left and they were faced with the expanse of space where he was hidden.   
Hunk’s hope was warmer the Pidge’s, mixed with the hope of seeing home again, the hope of seeing _home with Lance._ Again.   
And Pidge, although their light was colder, stubborn in the winds of logic that finding Lance now, so long after his disappearance with so much universe to cover, so many planets to scour, no hair or hide of him for months… Still they hoped, not just for Lance, but for their missing father and brother too.   
They had been gone for longer, their situation as much the same as Lance’s, so there was no reason for them to give up on their friend. 

But still, there they stood, their eyes on _Genwar,_ the discussion of allying themselves with the pirates. Even the others; Shiro, Allura, Kolivan, all of them had left to discuss the next battle, the next mission, the next alien that needed saving while they turned a blind eye to the Human that was their friend, just out of reach.  
Now, they spoke of allies and the Galra war. Soon, they would no longer think of their missing Paladin and plan to affirm Allura as Blue’s permanent pilot. They would abandon the search for their brother, to return to fighting.   
But for what? For a universe that demanded sacrifice for reward? A universe where freedom was the honour given to the fighters that abandoned their friends for their goal? 

It didn’t matter that they couldn’t see it. Keith could. He’d find Lance. All that mattered now was reaching _Genwar,_ to find the pirates that liberated it and to ask them of Lance. If they were there no longer, then he’d ask the Hycis for their whereabouts, or where they were heading next. 

The others would go, for the alignment of warriors to fight alongside them against a common enemy.   
He’d go for the possibility of finding Lance.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Symir  
 **Location:** Marmora Base in Filarel’s Core

Allura stood at the Castle’s helm, having finished speaking with Shiro and Kolivan about their approach for _Genwar._ It was decided the mission was to go ahead; one that saw no scarcity of volunteers that would throw themselves at the Galra to reclaim the planet. For Shiro, there was more than just freeing its people, and not in terms of freeing others from the fate of the Galra’s weapons.  
He had looked back at the movements since seven became six, and all he sees is failure where the could be victory. He sees many fights missed, many victims ignored for the sake of one Human. 

But that one Human was Lance. How could anyone ask the price of a best friend’s life in return for thousands of others?   
Cold, harsh logic gives the simple decision, but when it comes to the Princess, to the Black Paladin, to _anyone of them,_ then how are they to decide? 

Blue purrs quietly, trying to calm the tempest of thoughts that crowd in side her already tired mind, the rain upon her cheeks before she felt it falling.   
_It’s okay,_ she seemed to say. The lioness was tired, always tired, like she was after the pair’s vigorous training sessions, when Allura and Blue linked closely, sharing their pain until they were exhausted, but afterwards feeling that little bit lighter. 

Allura wasn’t an expert pilot, not like the rest of the team, but she had the acceptance of the Lions so far, even Blue who had no reason to accept her after she pushed away Lance.   
But Blue did, and it was enough to allow her access to the Lion’s cockpits and permission to pilot her when she was needed. Even still, they were unsuccessful in forming Voltron.   
No singular fault on anyone’s behalf, she knew that. 

When they mind-melded together, _(Lance’s odd term),_ she could feel the splinter of pain in all of them. Even she herself hoped the bond would be unsuccessful, to prove to her that she could never _replace_ Lance.   
So far, that point was true. 

Now, after searching for so long, they had found a glimmer of hope in the dark, provided by the Marmora, and soon with the other Paladin’s searching of the recovered files, they might be able to track down the location of the Pirates and ask of Lance’s whereabouts. Perhaps the boy was even with them, and their searching would be over.   
If Lance was with the pirates; aliens that they’d fought against until they disappeared off the map, had changed their course of action and were now helping the aliens, rather than attacking them.   
Hunk had thought it a possibility. Not the only one to, but the first to voice that Lance hadn’t returned to them because he was trapped, but because he _chose_ not to. Keith’s anger was understandable.   
It felt like betrayal to consider that Lance had turned his back on Voltron. 

“Princess?”   
It’s Coran. He stands in the doorway, arms tucked neatly behind his back, fingers intertwined to hold them there, to take the weight off of his shoulders as he enters the room. “Shiro and Kolivan are still talking, I presume.”   
“Yes. I grew tired, and before I knew it, I found myself here.”  
Coran nods, understanding the need for a moment to breathe. 

They stand together, looking out the window, staring to _Filarel’s_ sunrise and beyond. There are no words between them, no words the believe in enough that they’ll offer reassurance to the other.   
Their anticipation was a nervous kind of energy. It trickled through the air like rain upon glass, cold on their skin, soaking into their boots, their clothes. Heavy, but… _not._  
Allura could feel the weight on her heart, but she felt like she could fly to the end of the cosmos all at once. It was strange. Absorbing. Covetous—

“I’ve never thought myself so small before, Coran.” Her voice is soft. He can hear her tears without turning to face her. “Space was always there, but I never thought about the sheer size of it, never considered the pain that comes with searching for someone lost. Everything was so simple when I was younger. When we were all younger, even the universe himself when he was small. Now…” 

Blue purrs softly, her warmth wrapping around Allura, holding her close.   
The girl smiles to herself. She keeps her thoughts inside her head. It’ll do no good to spread the fear, she knows this. Instead, she must stay strong, and stand shoulder to shoulder with her Paladins, to overcome this challenge. She may be tired, but that's no excuse to let doubt fill her mind and cloud her judgement.   
_She has to stay strong._

“We will find him. Of course we will.”   
“That’s the spirit Princess.” 

“Then to business.” Because that is all the matters for now. Not dwelling. Not dragging herself down. “We must find the others and confer together. If we are to meet the pirates, be it tracking their position and jumping to their star system, then I fear they won’t greet us well.”   
A raised eyebrow from Coran urges her on. “The last time we came in contact, we attacked them. We were foes, and so we fired upon their ships and chased them away. I fear jumping into their vicinity will look like an attack. They’ll either flee, or fight.”   
“Then we send them a message. We arrange a meeting, treating it like a diplomatic mission.” Allura nods, but her smile remains sceptical. “I doubt it will be easy.” 

“We’ve noticed that the pirates are no longer attacking civilians, but what if they’re also helping them. Then we could simply relay a distress beacon on an unclaimed moon and hope that they answer. If we do so near _Zaltarish,_ where the pirates have been known to be—”  
“Yes, there would be a chance in summoning the pirates to us, but we still attacked them. Seeing an enemy that uses a distress beacon to lure one in, anyone would assume it to be a trap. I would anyway,” she says. Coran is trying to be helpful, but they can’t plan stupid.   
This isn’t just about Lance; this is also about the possibility of an Alliance with a group of Aliens that are also fighting the Galra. And if Lance isn’t there, then amalgamating an alliance will stretch their resources in searching for their missing teammate.

“If politics is a give and take relationship, can’t we start off by offering our help? Or maybe something else that they might need.”   
“Like our assistance,” Coran agreed, stroking his moustache. “If we were to help them on one of their fights against the Galra, they’ll be more willing to talk to us, even if it would be just to thank us in the beginning.” 

Before another idea can be put forth, the doors open and they are greeted with Hunk, breathing heavy, looking pleased. “Quick, come to the Bridge. Keith and Pidge have found the location of the Pirates.” There are no more words before the young Paladin is running back the way he came, not needing to look over his shoulder to know that Allura and Coran are following, their worries left behind in the star-light corridor. 

When the reach the Bridge, the remaining Paladins are gathered, including Blade agents and Kolivan himself. They all face the main holo-display, where a video feed shows the Pirates in battle with the Galra.   
“Where is this?” Allura asks, her tone that of a Princess, demanding an ear, and an answer. 

“It is _Genwar._ The pirates amassed their forces seven days ago and attacked the Galra’s space station, yet that was simply a diversion for an infiltration team to sneak to the surface and free the Hycis prisoners.”  
“Then the Hycis are free. What of the pirates, where are they now?”   
But Pidge solemn look silence Allura, the hope inside her snuffed out in an instant. 

“The pirates were unsuccessful. _Genwar_ remains in the hands of the Galra. They called for the fleet long before the attack, but when I was sorting through the files, I found a request from the Base Commander,” Pidge says turning back to the destruction on-screen. 

“They called for a long-distance transport ship. And the cargo log doesn’t say equipment. They’re planning to transport prisoners caught during the attack.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter will be uploaded: Monday 26th


	33. A Want To Liberate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got to keep going. Got to keep fighting. Got to get them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout-out to Greyisles for Beta-ing this chapter for me. You were a huge help, so thank you!

**System:** Caesura  
**Location:** Genwar

“ELDAR, we’re pinned down, we can’t move!” 

Lance sets off his sniper, taking out the nearest three sentries as fast as he can, before lining up another half dozen that come charging from the far corner, too close to the retreating Hycis for his liking. He can’t watch them for too long, barrel pulled around to the sounds of screaming, not wanting to think whose blood paints the floor, not wanting to hear the screams of children that shake parents that will not wake.  
He cannot stop to stare at the fearful expressions of his teammates and the few remaining Hycis who still barrel forward, out the base, into the courtyard and over the cliff face, scrambling into the jungle for cover. 

Lance is trapped. Between him is the chasm of the base being torn apart by _Genwar_ herself, her rage bubbling up in molten lava, ash plumes that fill the air, fill the sky with noise and heat and _pain._  
“Lance, damn you, _whet, move already!”_ Uilt’xen is beside him, her _Kaut_ empty, reduced to throwing rubble from the broken walls, the broken floor, picking up android guns and returning fire on the _Culm_ that pour like parasites from all corners of the room. 

They’re closing in. 

“Eldar, Fellfrir, _anyone!_ We need you to attack the base, give us a— _aarrgghhh!”_  
Lance reeled back, hand over his face where some _Galra bastard_ had shot him. Above the eye. _For fucks sake,_ the damn thing must’ve pierced his mask. It is cracked, blood-stained and useless. He feels nothing but anger when he rips it from his brow and tosses it to the floor, shoving a hand through his fringe, the damp of blood keeping it held back as he lines up target after target _after target after target._  
There are too many for his sniper alone. 

_I need to keep going._

_I need to keep fighting._

_I need get them out._

Fire rains down upon them as _Genwar_ cries for her children, anger hot and dangerous to those that are trying to save them. Uilt’xen knocks Lance aside to avoid the falling rocks of the ceiling, her own arm caught by the jagged edges of debris. “I’m fine,” she snaps when Lance stares at the graze left on the skin, the inevitable broken bone that lies beneath. “I can still move it Valion, _so I’m fine.”_

The Galra open fire on their position. Uilt’xen drags Lane to take cover behind a fallen pillar, the world around them hidden beyond plumes of smoke rising from fractures in the ground.  
Leonel is beside him, and then he’s not. Lance doesn’t dare look, he’s too busy trying to calm his heart that thuds and thuds _and thuds._ He can’t keep himself from flinching at the sight of blood on his hands. But he knows it’s not his. _It’s hers. She’s bleeding._

_{You’re going to die kill them, Lance. They’re all going to die and it’s all your fault.}_

_“Valion? Valion!”_ It’s Gereen, yelling through the Comms, other voices too all taut from fear and worry. Lance can hear Eldar screaming for him, too far away in his own space battle to help his _Arenphine_ trapped on the planet’s surface. He’s feeling helpless, he’s feels useless. _He’ll get himself killed if he loses focus._

_{And whose fault is that? Who was the one to bring the Solnha here? Who is to blame?}_

_{Who is the one that wanted to play “hero?”}_

“Valion, Valion do you read? Where are you, we’re coming to get you out.” It’s Eldar, his voice unfamiliar, drenched in terror.  
“We’re still in the base. We’re not out yet,” Lance yelled over the sounds of gunfire raining down on them. Uilt’xen shoves him again, but not out the way of danger, but back towards a blocked doorway. There is enough crawlspace in its rubble barricade for a small Human to fit through.  
“Go around. Get in and go around,” Uilt’xen is saying, then it’s Leonel, then it’s Rayon, yelling because “we’ve got this Valion. You need to lead the Hycis out.”  
“No, I’m not leaving you here!”

 _Genwar_ shakes, deep in her core and the base continues to crumble around them. A fissure splinters beneath their feet, forcing them from their hiding place, out into the open, into the Galra’s range— “No!”  
It’s not one of his team that charges the sentry defence line, but a Hycis who had been leading their people to freedom. But at the wall, instead of running for her future, she had turned back and seen the danger her saviour was in. And without cause for hesitation, she charged, barrelling into their lines, knocking over three, four, another and another. 

Until they turned their guns on her. 

“No!”  
She fell with a smile. 

It was the break in gunfire that the remaining prisoners needed, all rushing from the tunnel where they had been penned, past the blasted hole in the outer wall and out to the Plateau’s edge. Some have thrown themselves off in desperation, the childish games of diving into the splash pool now their ticket to safety, while others, holding children to their chests, taking the vertical path down. They scrambled quicker than the team when they infiltrated, but they have the path to the ship as Ygrainne and Ryul ferry them on. 

There are few who remain in the base: children who clutch to their parents who won’t wake, the injured who cannot walk, and those who cannot move, lest they bring the wrath of the Empire upon them all.

A scream pulls Lance’s eyes from the escape route, across the room to a young babe with a barrel against his head. “Leonel, go!” He doesn’t need tell twice, the officer downed by the poison of his barbs, the child in his grasp and another who was between him and the fracture. Rayon ignores the lasers that glance off his shell as he charges the frontlines, Kenmare beside him, Uilt’xen following, all bloody and battered, but frightening nonetheless. Lance doesn’t blame the soldiers for cowering as she tears their limbs from their bodies. 

_Genwar_ joins the fight again, shaking the ground, her heart beating loud in Lance’s ears as the base continues to crumble. A wall collapses beyond the chasm, another this side, until there are only two doors that allow the hordes to file through. 

Leonel and the power twins are next to Lance. “You go next,” Lance tells the Draora beside him, but they just throw him matching smirks, and together, start throwing projectiles at the second wave of sentries that come charging in from the right. “And leave you the glory? Sorry Valion, but I’m claiming my own title when we get out of here,” Rayon grins, hefting a huge chunk of wall and tossing it, not at the soldiers, but at the wall behind them, where are sizeable weakness runs up its face; a weapon in hiding in plain sight.  
“I’m trying to look good for Uilt’xen, so don’t ruin it for me,” Kenmare says on passing, but he’s heading towards the wall; a Hycis on his back and another under his arm. 

But despite the cheeriness in their voices, Lance can hear fear. It is an uncertainty that clings to them all, their weapons heavy, their hearts heavier – with every new cry, every scream – every guttural order issued from the Base Commander who stands behind his glorified defence wall.  
He demands death to all. No pity. _No excuses._

They’re trapped again, the wires that ran along the floor catching fire from _Genwar’s_ retaliation. The wires hiss and spit, threatening more pain than any Galra could ever inflict. It is a snake with its head cut off, thrashing and spitting as it fights the grasp of Death.  
The serpent latches its feet into a sentry, already fallen, but it grounds the electricity for a second, the beast searching for its path back to _Genwar’s_ heart.  
Lance pulls back, Uilt’xen too, eyeing the electricity with fear. It has cut them off from their short-cut, the escape route diverted, forcing them to charge through the ranks if there is to be any chance of escaping.

“Is that all of the Hycis?” Lance yells as explosions sound behind him; the hot dust of ash and fire choking the air in his lungs. The roar of explosions drowns out everything but the sound of his gasping breath. Across from him, Kenmare suffers the same, crouching against the crumbling base wall, ducking as a nearby explosion kicks up more ash and sends shrapnel flying around them. The fucking Galra are tearing this base apart in their attempts to bring down the Solnha, and _Genwar_ isn’t too far behind them for sheer destruction. She’s got reason though. Revenge and all that, but Lance would appreciate the chance to get out before they world crumbles around them. 

Some of the smoke clears, and Lance can just make out those that crowd near him. Kenmare is supporting a new wound on his neck. Leonel holds the stump of a missing barb, biting his bottom lip with his fangs, eyes shut-tight from pain.  
Rayon is closest. His eyes are wide, his hair full of dust and bits of the base’s blasted walls. His jaw is set in grim determination, and his hands steady on his gun. From the corner of his eye, Lance sees him glance at him, Rayon shifting his barrel to aim at him—  
Rayon takes down three sentries in quick succession. They had come from the tunnel the Solnha had abandoned, and they wouldn’t be the last. _Fucking hell._

A flash of silver runs from the smoke, and quick as a thought, Rayon swings his rifle around, Kenmare’s lifted with one hand. They shoot.

Six bodies fall in less time than it takes Lance to count them. He doesn’t linger out of cover to check if there are any more charging; they will, they all know this, but with the Galra sweeping behind them, under their feet up and up to the mouth of the tunnel. If they stay where they are, it is the same as giving up and handing themselves over to those bastards.

_We need to keep going._

_We need to keep fighting._

_We need to get out._

The power twins swing back into their temporary shelter of the broken wall, reloading their light-rifles with the swift, confident movements of a practised professional. Kenmare glances up only once to mark Uilt’xen’s position, his eyes dark, focused. Ready.

It’s a look that shifts something in Lance’s gut, but before he can ask _why,_ Kenmare is running, dodging, charging. 

“KENMARE NO!”  
But he’s gone, swallowed by smoke and lasers. His battle cry pulls his brothers and sister from their defence, and they follow, charging into battle alongside him. 

Lance cuts the smoke with his light-sword, ignoring the pain of his shoulder, burning as he hefts his sword, cutting two enemies in half. He is charging a third before they can drop to the floor. A laser catches the back of his hand, something hard and sharp cleaving for forearm but it holds nothing to the strength of his _Fila’ Ion._ The armour sparks, reflecting the blade that would’ve claimed his arm. His heart starts to pound now, from constantly running and dodging lasers. It thumps wildly against his rib cage, fighting him as he forces himself to breathe deeply, to keep enough oxygen circulating, to keep his muscles moving, to keep his mind thinking.  
To survive. 

_“Valion, Valion are you there?”_

The ships above are still calling out; Gereen, Roamer, Or’, _all of them._ Lance can hear their worry but he doesn’t have time to offer comfort as he takes out the soldiers in his immediate vicinity. He’s got to plan, he’s got to figure out how they’re getting out, yet their hack-and-slash head-on approach is working well to their favour. _Hey, they might actually make it—_

The knife was warm in his gut.  
Not unlike bone, but foreign and unwanted.

There was no pain, not at first. It came, hot and harsh, the air alight with fire. The scream comes first; pitched and inhuman. It is Lance and altogether it is entirely separate.  
But no, it is Lance who screams and Uilt’xen who screams his name over the sound of the world tearing itself apart around them. His body shakes, tearing itself form the source of pain, chilling-cold-blinding-rage-fear-hurt _make it stop. Make it stop!_  
When he looks up, all he sees is nothing but fire, rage-incarnate as the _sakaala_ steps forward. With her blade close to her lips, she traces, her tongue across its edge, tasting the blood of the boy she hates. _Hates, hates, hates, hates, hates, hates—_

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you so soon,” the girl croons, sliding the blade between her lips until it’s clear of blood. 

Lance would snarl in anger, but he can’t, not when he keeps the screams pouring from his lips. The pressure applied onto his wound is heavy and painful. The blood dripping from it is just a drop in comparison to when the blade was driven into his gut. It met nothing but flesh, muscle and bone, but even if the thought offers comfort that he won’t die from the wound, it doesn’t stop the thought that he’s going to bleed out here, on _Genwar_ as the war rages around them, rages on and he’s going to die, to be left behind—

_It’s all her fault._

“I had hoped you were dead,” Valion snarls, pulling himself from the precipice of darkness, turning his pain into fierce-hot-dragon-rage anger.  
Orvis just smiled. “Not so. And I’m glad for it. Otherwise I wouldn’t get to kill you. Although it would upset my dear brother that I slit your throat before he… _had his way with you.”_  
The words are the key to the door that hides memories Lance refuses to recollect. Orvis, with all her malice and cruelty forces him back into the corridor, teeth around his neck, heat between his legs, blood and screams _and so much blood—_

“The only thing you’ll regret is coming here,” Valion snarled again, the pit in his stomach filling with boiling-rage-electric-sea-salt-anger. He lunged before she could, his light-sword held out to his right while his left hand remained affixed to the wound in his side. 

Orvis just dodged and continued to taunt him, a smirk twisting her face. “The only thing I’ll regret is not slitting your throat before I left. Perhaps I could’ve taken some _culm_ with me, sold them to the Galra as slaves. They would’ve loved Or’. The little traitor doesn’t deserve a swift death, but if I told the idiots that she knew something very valuable, they wouldn’t be too keen to kill her.”

“Bitch,” Valion snarled, raising his sword again. “The Galra love their little torture toys, don’t they? You know, I managed to strike a deal with Commander Xardin, here on the base. He said any prisoners we catch, I get to have a little… _discussion_ with them—” her face twisted with a grotesque sneer— “and I have so many things I want to discuss with you and your _Arenphine.”_

Rage surged through him, so quick, so fast, that his breath was heavy in his lungs, the emptiness even more so when he suddenly forgot how to breathe. Orvis laughed, her head thrown back, lips curling to reveal her teeth. 

The scars on Valion’s shoulder are scorching under his skin.

The air, thick with smoke, felt hot in his throat; vicious and snarling like a beast as it joined the fight, attacking Valion as he stood, blade heavy, brow dripping with sweat and fear clinging to his legs. 

_{Run Lance. You can’t fight her. Run now and save yourself.}_

But Valion, Leader of the Solnha, would _not._  
He hefts his blade and held it before him, eyes set with determination, fear crushed under his heel as he pushed, bounced on his toes and _charged._

Orvis laughed again, but the threw up her blade to meet him, the other wrist cracking back to slice the whip where he stood—Valion was no longer there. He dodged, sidestepping to the right, to the left, the pain in his gut spurring him on. He disarms her, the whip burnt by his energy-sword. A grin works its way on his face, but she doesn’t seem phased. “Too slow,” Orvis taunts, gnashing her maw and it’s her turn to charge; suddenly wielding knives in each hand and a barb attached to her tail. 

Lance didn’t see her tail.  
Not until it was too late to dodge. 

The wind was knocked out of him when he slammed into the wall, something large and painful digging into his side on impact. It is blunt enough just to bruise body-flesh-bone, and not pierce his skin. Lance had barely figured out how his lungs worked before he hit the floor, (further down than he expected to fall), and now he has to start all over again.  
Someone is calling his name, many someones, but Lance can’t reply because he can’t tear focus from the bitch that looms down from the sky. She jumped, following him from the higher level and they’re down three, further from the escape, further from the sky that is hidden by billowing smoke and toxic fumes. Lance chokes once and he’s already wishing for his _fucking_ mask, but some git had shot it off his face and now he’s got nothing to defend him. His eyes water, smoke pulling tears to stream down his face, but they barely reach their cheeks before the heat dries them up. 

“Tears won’t save you,” Orvis taunts, but it is not in her favour. Lance hadn’t seen her, but calling out gave him amble time to drop to the floor, one knife, two knives sailing over his head. He rolls to the left reaching for his shift-blade that has retreated to its handle configuration. A strike sends him rolling again, close to the edge but he knows where it is, he’s not going to fall, _no,_ he’s up.  
Orvis is upon him, but Lance has his light-sword and her armour cannot save her skin from burning as the energy blade slices through it; he smirks as he hears the blade hissing against it, before a large piece of her amour bubbles and cracks under the heat of his sword.

Orvis may not be a veteran soldier like her mate, but it doesn’t make her any less dangerous. She’s less predictable, instinctive, and her tail is a force to be reckoned with, even without the extra armaments that plunge deep into Lance’s armour… _yet do not pierce._

_“Valion, Valion can you hear me?”_

It doesn’t come from his comms, but as it always had when he spoke to star-child, instead, inside his mind. It was as if Zaos is standing right beside him.

“Zaos? Zaos what’s wrong, what’s happening?” Lance asked, his panic spiking at the thought of _why_ she was speaking to him, and in such a private way compared to the open-line comms that they all had at hand. 

The worry is a distraction, giving Orvis an advantage for the moment but lucky for Lance she is much like her brother in that they both love to gloat and announce their next move with taunts before following through with their attack. She barks three insults in succession, giving Lance ample time to dodge, side-stepping out of a slash-attack that would’ve surely stolen his left arm from him. It would’ve been a shame. He likes his left arm. 

He dodges another swipe of Orvis’s stunted blade, but falls prey to her tail once again, pushed to the edge of their fighting ring with barely enough time to breathe before she’s pushing him back again. He’s forced to roll between her legs, swiping at her ankles because it’s the closest thing he can reach as he goes.  
She turns. They’re face to face once again, locked at the wrists, the tail swinging up behind, but unable to pierce Lance’s armour. By Orvis’s snarl, he can tell she is both confused and angry that Lance isn’t being injured by the barbs. 

_“I can barely stop her from breaching the skin,”_ Zaos cries, voice stretched thin. _Ah that explains it._ Because Zaos, even amidst the battle above them, she has turned her attention to her champion and steals his pain, steals his exhaustion and allows him to fight without the shackles that would drag any ordinary Human to their knees.  
“You don’t need to help me, focus on your own fight,” Valion says, a sharpness returning to his voice as he turns on his enemy. The sound of metal against metal mixes with the destruction three floors up and _Genwar’s_ own cries of anger from below. There was no intricate strategy Lance could employ that would win him the favour of the fight, but he wasn’t as brainless as his opponent to copy their hack-and-slash. 

Zaos screams and Orvis’s knife pushes through the silver-weave, cutting Lance’s flesh. “Zaos—!”  
_“I’m fine, it’s just—god that whet,  I’m going to—”_ She’s silent again, pulled from his mind too soon and the warmth of her presence in his mind is gone; nothing but an emptiness that his cold and unwanted. 

There is no chance to fear for her. 

“Valion? Where are you?” It’s Rayon from above, Leonel too, having been given the chance to catch their breaths and look to one another, only to find their leader is not with them. Not by choice, but Orvis’s ambush had taken them from their almost-escape back to their earlier plan of fighting their way out. 

“We’re coming—”  
“No, you’re not, you’re getting out!” Lance yells, his fingers sliding along his bo staff to draw out his light-sword once again. A thrown-knife halts his fingers over the point-facing arrows, and instead the bo breaks into the familiar dual blades. 

“Don’t ignore me!” Orvis yells, stepping into Lance’s reach but the short-sword don’t scare her, who wears natural armour in the form of scales. She glistens with sweat and blood alike, but Lance doesn’t see beauty when she charges, foaming mouth, sharp fangs that search for blood and her thief razorblades imbed themselves in rock. Right where Lance had been standing.  
He makes to draw his weapon again, but the She-Arroyen doesn’t give him the chance, leaving her knives in favour of pulling two more from the sheaths on her back. She charges in again.

Lance stops her in her tracks with his short-swords crossed in front of him, having caught her, mid-swing and now they’re at a stalemate. Or they would’ve been, if Lance also had a tail. But he doesn’t. 

He’s Human. 

“VALION!” Rayon and Leonel are too far away to help, too far from Orvis for the reach of their knuckle buster and poisonous sting. 

“Got you now,” Orvis smirked, her tail raised, barb ready to strike Lance deep in his heart…but she doesn’t. Her face falls for a second, determination replaced by confusion, a hint of fear that seeps into her smile and washes it away. But then, _anger._  
Red-hot-firm-knotted-unrestrained anger that pulls screams from her throat and blood from her mouth. 

“Get out of my head!” Orvis turns from Lance, from the moment of killing and revenge and victory, to swipe at the no one who stands behind her. A roar announces a second strike yet it doesn’t meet anything that stands as a threat. Rocks are smashed, the columns of the room that they fell into are her new targets, for no reason other than to attack an enemy that doesn’t exist. 

She is distracted. She is blind to Lance, and in this moment, honourable _whatever_ aside, now would be the perfect moment to kill her. 

Yet in this perfect moment, Valion feels the burn of all his injuries, all the exhaustion, all the fatigue weighing his limbs like he’s made of oak and the strings to his mind have been cut. He can just about keep his eyes open, one hand pressed to the sluggish bleeding of his gut, staining his midnight armour a sickening crimson. 

“I’ll kill you!” Orvis roared to the column, continuing to attack. She swung again, blind to what truly lay before her. 

Lance doesn’t know for certain, but he wonders if it is Zaos who has crawled inside Orvis’s twisted mind and twisted it a little herself. And for a moment, her hears her again. _“Run.”_  
She cannot fight Orvis and hold back Valion’s pain in the same instant, but she can buy him time by drawing the lizard away. It is the only chance Lance will get and he’s going to take it. 

With sheer effort and a great deal of imaginative cussing, Valion heaves himself over towards the twisted metal of the upper level. It’s been crushed by fallen debris by the third, and although it’s not the best path, there _is_ a path. He could choose, if he wished, to lose himself in the twisting and turning of the tunnels for an easier route _up,_ but there was no time. There wasn’t even time to go slow, as _Genwar_ screamed and the sentries tried to silence her with guns and threats and the promise of more corpses. 

“Get a move on, we need to leave,” Uilt’xen calls over the sound of the destruction, like Lance _chooses_ to climb slowly, like he _wants_ his chest to burn with every step. The wound Gereen gave him in their duel hinders the reach of his left arm, but that is better suited firmly pressed to his side, to slow the stem of blood that is starting to make him feel light-headed and sleepy. Not that taking a nap mid-battle was the _best_ strategy, but it certainly felt welcoming. As long as Lance wasn’t captured, hung, drawn and quartered for it. 

Suddenly the tiredness ebbs. The boy’s entire body is alight with a tingle over the top of his skin, like water rushing up from his toes, over his body and his face, washing away the pain, the weariness, the dreading fear that was beginning to choke—  
_“Hurry Valion, I cannot keep her for long!”_ Zaos is with him once again, but attention torn leaves Orvis able to throw the hold the star-child has on her mind. 

“Get back here!” Orvis pulls at the hold Zaos claims on parts of her mind, finally able to see her prey who flees from her. She bats at imaginary targets, snapping jaws at smoke and ash, steady steps pushing towards Lance. 

Thunder drums far above, beyond smoke and screams, but it isn’t _Genwar_ who claws at the foundations to shake the base from its setting, Instead, the attack came from the sky.  
“What was that?” Kenmare yells. He had a child in his arms, the poor thing cowering into the crook of his neck, silent in terror. It pulls at Lance’s heart, but he can’t feel for the child, feel for himself and scramble up the cascading mountain before him—

“You’re not getting away from me,” the lizard screeches, pushing herself onto all fours, feral in the ways she crawls on her belly, pulling herself up broken pillars, floor fragments and debris that rained down from the ceiling as the world shook again. 

Valion can scramble quicker now, not as quick as he nor his team would like, but it’s certainly faster. Zaos gives her all to her Leader, whispering in his ear to keep his mind focused, to encourage him, to keep him moving, faster and faster. 

_It’s not fast enough._

The Arroyo is upon him before he has a chance to turn, to draw out blade or gar and bat away that hand that curls around his neck. His weapon his thrown aside, clattering out of sight.  
He’s a level beneath his friends, but they cannot help him as the horde pushes them close to the edge. They no longer care for the sake of prisoners; just revenge in the form of corpses. 

Lance fought, and fought hard. He refused to fall prey to Orvis just like he had to her brother, having needed Eldar to save him when he couldn’t save himself. There was no one to save him this time. 

Zaos could take Lance’s pain, but she couldn’t give him strength. She couldn’t tear the lizard from where she pressed close, her teeth diving down to his chest. It is with Zaos’ power that the armour holds, but the talons are already round Lance’s neck and Orvis doesn’t need to gut him anymore to kill him. She just has to snap his neck. 

“My brother desires you,” the bitch laughed, no joy in her tone. Just malice and a darkness found in the darkest corners of hell.  
“I don’t understand it, not even Gereen’s want for you. But I,” she smiled, snapping her teeth, “I only want to kill you, to hurt that _toakh_ you call your heartmate.” Lance’s eyes widened, but whatever threat he could muster was silenced with the squeezing of Orvis’s grasp around his throat. His eyes bulged, he couldn’t make any noise, but he can breathe, albeit shallow. Her sharp talons dig into his neck, forming cuts that are not deep enough to pierce artery or windpipe, but causes his vision to darken. Lance tries to breathe against her painful hold, but the _sakaala_ just squeezes tighter. Torturing him to prolong his suffering. 

Lance’s hands were free, but they are weak against her monstrous strength. He attempts to pry her hands off his neck. His nails scrape innocuously against her diamond like scales. His nails break and bleed as he continues his helpless task, darkness spreading across his vision. His breathing becomes laboured, his body spasms from insufficient amount of oxygen, and his body weakly trembles. _Can't...breathe…_  
Desperation took over, an instinct that caused Lance’s entire body to thrash, his only goal was air, his mind blank, prey-like as it writhes in the claws of a cage before the feet of the monster that will devourer it.

Instead of helplessly clawing at her hands, Lance raises his arms to gorge out her eyes. He wants to dig into the soft flesh of her neck, and yank the feathers that stand erect upon her head. Anything to get her claws out of his neck so he can finally breathe.

But it was all for naught, Lance’s hands covering his neck when Orvis allowed his throat to constrict and air to be drawn into his starving lungs. The darkness ebbed, smoke and ash in his throat, eyes tearing as Lance’s head swam in pain. “Fucker, die–” he began, cut off the second he cursed. The Alien flexed her talons again and the Human’s windpipe was squeezed between the too-strong scaled digits, pushing her claws deeper than before, drawing fresh blood like a feral vampire feeding for the first time in weeks.

At the point of blacking out, Lance could breathe again. He gasped for the drink of life, coughing, and choking on his own tongue. He retched, felt weight on him for another moment, but the strength to push Orvis away couldn’t come. He struggles to work his lungs in timed pattern. She didn’t strangle him again, but a hand on his chest to keep him pinned. In her other hand she held something to the light of the fire, the sparkle of gold unnaturally beautiful for a moment.

Orvis turned medallion eyes on the boy, a snarl upon her tongue. “He chose _you._ You, who’s weak, pathetic, just as much a _toakh_ as _him.”_ Lance doesn’t understand, but he’s thankful she’s not choking him, so he doesn’t interrupt. Not when he can think, and try and get himself out of this mess.

The platform they were on was unstable at best; slates of construction balanced on broken columns halfway between the floor and the highest level of the base. _The way out._  
But Lance can’t get there without jumping to the iron work, warped from heat, twisted like spider’s legs protruding from rock. Orvis is in the way, but he has no weapon other than weak, blunted nails and his own teeth. They worked against Ovule last time, but Orvis will know to avoid the boy’s mouth. Besides, she has no interest in keeping Lance alive to taunt him and destroy him while he writhes beneath her.  
Her goal is to break his body and throw it at the feet of Eldar and the Solnha for some unknown twisted reason that only makes sense to her. 

Eldar’s talisman means more to Orvis that Lance expected, but he doesn’t see her rising temper as he searches for a weapon within reach. But the second he tries and grabs it, whatever it maybe, he knows it’ll draw the lizard’s attention back to him. He’ll have to be quick.

He throws his arm out.

Orvis turns back to him.

He smashes the rock against the side of her head.

Lance aims for her maw, nose, throat, _whatever will hurt her._ It’s her eye he catches, and there’s only the faintest cry of victory before he curls his body, findings the sole of his boot on her breast and _fucking launches_ his boot to the center of her solar plexus. She’s knocked clean off the platform, but she’s not going to be down for long.

Lance doesn’t linger.

“Valion!”  
“I’m coming,” Valion yells back, sending a silent prayer to Zaos to keep the pain from him a moment longer, just until they’re out in the courtyard, or over the cliff and into the jungle. Or even until he’s beside his brothers and sister.  
Pain slowed his ascent, but the freedom and shining moon lit a fire within him, be it Zaos or his own strength that filled his arms, his own speed pushing his legs as he raced the last of the uneven climb back to the level in which his Solnha family fought against the android army from hell. 

“I’LL KILL YOU,” came the thundering roar of the she-beast. More cries chorused through the ranks of the enemies, laser blasts following the sound of footsteps that charged in, through the smoke, over the cover of pillars and columns and walls. Far above, there was the stars, and just beyond, was the safety of home. 

“Valion!” It’s Uilt’xen. She holds a hand to her arm, her face covered in blood and grime while another arm hangs limp by her side. Her back is pressed into the corner of her own hiding place, close to Valion but further from their brothers who hold their own in the hole in the wall of the base.  
“Go!” Valion orders, pulling Galran eyes upon him, but swiping up a gun from a fallen sentry sees their numbers halved. He’s lost his shift-blade; something that may just cost him the fight. 

Valion dives for cover when Orvis roars again, launching herself from the lower level, but now Valion is hidden and she’ll have to find him first. He’s going to get his family out before that happens. 

_I need to keep going._

_I need to keep fighting._

_I need to get them out._

They’re pinned.

Between themselves and their escape is an army of soldiers and a traitor hellbent on torturing any of them she can capture. Her targets lie with the power twins now, but Leonel intercepts and she can’t get close enough to use her knives lest he poison her with his own barbs. Valion needn’t worry for them now, instead, for Uilt’xen. His sister is paler than usual.  
Her head wound is still bleeding; it is sluggish, but too much for his liking. He pulls her weight so she’s leant against his hip.  
She doesn’t put up much of a fight. It is another reason to worry.

“Uilt’xen, you can still aim right?” Lance asks, forcing his voice calm. “I’m going to need your help.”  
Instead of speaking, Uilt’xen vomits. Lance hopes Daratrine regularly throw up their own blood.

Rather than of waiting for a second attempt at a verbal response, Lance shifts his hold, grabbing an arm and her thigh, throwing her over his shoulder. She spews again, and the screams of Lance’s shoulder pressing into the wound of her chest is deafening, but Lance can’t waste breath on apologies. He’ll get to that once they’re out.

 _“—xen, Uilt’xen… can… going on…. Ship inbound…. Can’t reach…. Pull back...”_ Lance can hear her comms; his own having been crushed by Orvis’s monster grip. She sees him now, but she can’t break away from Leonel to hunt down her prey. “Roamer, come in, it’s Valion. We’re pinned,” the Human shouts, hoping his voice will carry over the explosions beneath their feet. The planet shakes again, but Lance has no room to rush.  
Uilt’xen’s heavy on his shoulders and his pain beginning to return as Zaos’ hold upon his mind begins to slip. “Stay with me Zaos, I need you, just a little longer.”  
_“I’m trying Valion, I’m trying.”_  
“I know, I know, just—hold on, okay?”  
She doesn’t answer him, but then, Lance is still walking and he knows she’s just fighting hard, like the rest of them.

“Valion?” Roamer was reaching out to him, but with his own comms down, he had to rely on listening to the Hyaline through Uilt’xen’s equipment. “This is Uilt’xen’s line—is she okay, is she—”  
“Out cold,” Lance interrupted, thankful that Uilt’xen passed out and was no longer fighting the pain of broken limbs, shattered bones, and by the sound of her breathing, a punctured lung.

“Are Ryul and Ygrainne still in the jungle?”  
“Yes, they’re just waiting on you.”  
“Tell them to leave. We’re not going to get to them and I don’t want the Galra to capture them and all the Hycis.”  
“But—”

“Tell them to leave Roamer,” Valion orders, hefting Uilt’xen’s weight. He could feel Zaos leaving him, but before she could, he needed to close the gap between himself and their escape. One hand holding his sister upon his shoulders, the other having claimed a sentry rifle, using it to haphazardly shoot at those that set their sights on him.

He sees the tunnel they’re pouring out from and the fissures that run around its mouth. Another is behind the power twins, but it leads away from the escape. _Maybe…_

“I’ll send a _Draos—”_  
“Send a few Roamer. I need them to bomb the base.”

The Hyaline yelled something intelligible, but Lance was busy lining his barrel up with the doorway on the North wall where more enemies poured into the crumbling hangar. “There’s no need for a distraction anymore. We’ve been seen, we’re fighting our way out, and with no other enemy, we’re going to be over run. Now I’m ordering you,” Valion said, throwing the drained rifle and charging the remaining distance to the power twins. “Blow this fucking base skyward.” He snatched the voice box from Uilt’xen’s neck, throwing it into a nearby fire to show there was no room for discussion. Roamer had no choice but to send the ships and let loose. 

Valion reached the others, Leonel still a ways off, defending against Orvis who’s rage makes her movements sloppy, but powered. They’re barely holding their own against the other, but it’ll be a long time till one yields and victory can be taken. 

“Uilt’xen? Uilt’xen!” 

“She’s just out cold Kenmare” Lance says in comfort, but it can’t be much when the Daratrine lays at the boy’s feet, covered in blood, gasping for air. “She’s fine, help Leonel. We need to find cover, Roamer is sending bombers to destroy the base. Tell him to get to cover.” Kenmare makes to argue, but there’s no time. “Later,” Valion orders, grabbing a gun, shoving it in the other’s hands and pushing him towards the Vhoadan who is being pushed back. “Help him!” 

The sound of an explosion echoes far above; pulling Lance’s attention back to the fleet above and the incoming bombers. He fears the explosion was them being blasted from the sky, the thought unwanted but it has already latched it’s claws into his mind and holds fast. He’s ready to claw at his brain to stop himself from thinking such things, needing to focus on the here and now. He needs to focus on the fight. 

_Focus. Patience yields focus._

The words trigger more memories, more images in his head, marring his vision with hallucinations that form from smoke and fire until they are solid beings that are crouched beside him where he lays down fire, row after row of enemies falling. _“That’s it Lance, keep going, keep fighting.”_ Shiro is beside him, the glow of purple lighting up his face. His hair is longer than Lance remembers, but then it’s been a long time since he took himself from their side. _“You’re going to get the out Lance. Just hold on a little longer.”_

A shot flies past Lance’s head, too close for comfort, enough to singe his hair. Shiro calls for help, and suddenly there is Hunk, laying down cover fire with his giant automatic rail gun. _“C’mon Lance you can’t stay here. You’ve got to get your team and get out—”_  
“I can’t,” Lance says, because he can’t, not when Leonel and Kenmare are so far, not when he and Rayon are still pinned by enemy fire. And Uilt’xen. Bleeding out at his feet. 

“I can’t—”  
_“You can. Come on. You’ve saved their lives enough times, you can do it again. I believe in you.”_

 _“Better get a move on. We can’t hold them down for long,”_ Keith yells, and there he is, beyond the fissure, fighting hand to hand with a ring of enemies around him. Pidge stands with him, holding their own with the gar. But they’re different. They’re tall, Keith’s height, standing back to back with him, keeping one another safe.

“Come with me,” Lance begs, turning back to Shiro, but the Black Paladin won’t listen to such a selfish request.  
_“You can trust us Lance,”_ he says, his hand on the boy’s shoulder. _“You did it once, you can do it again. Trust us.”_ He squeezes slightly and suddenly there’s pain. Hot-burning-biting-ice pain that courses through shoulder and neck. He’s crying out, fingers covered in more blood, his own and Rayon’s, who stands over him, a spear protruding from his side. 

_“Dahast,”_ he grunts, turning, pulling the Galra scum close enough to ram a three-pointed finger punch to its neck and choke the wires from its joints. _“Chiarecht,”_ he curses, holding it up like a make-shift shield, the other hand steadying the spear in his side. He hadn’t been fast enough to defend with his shell, the spear piercing the weak point of his hip, just above the armour of his legs. 

“Rayon—”  
“I’m okay,” he bit, snapping the spear head to shorten its reach. He leaves it inside his body so he doesn’t bleed out before they can make it back to the ship. Draora biology deems that there are no major organs where the shaft has pierced his body so he’s not in any immediate danger. It doesn’t mean he won’t lose a significant amount of blood and die that way if he doesn’t get it sealed. And quickly.

“Roamer says forty ticks till the bombers hit,” he says, laying down cover fire as another unit of robots’ charge into the hangar. “Your plans are wild Valion, but this one might just get us killed.”

“We need to get back into the tunnel, and take cover until after the bombs detonate. Then we just need to get out before the enemy regroups.” Rayon nods, nothing more said as he turns to Leonel and Kenmare far from them, charging back towards them. Orvis is nowhere to be seen. “Hurry up,” he yells, stepping in to take Uilt’xen from Lance who had hoisted her on his back. 

The other two are yelling something, but he can’t hear them over the sound of explosions. 

“I thought you said we had—”

“It’s not the Draos!” Rayon answers, already knowing the question Valion poses. He stares at nothing in particular, picking his way over fallen bricks as he listens to Roamer in his ear. “They’re near, we just need—” but the explosions steal his words and the grounds shakes. Lance loses his footing, collapsing to the ground. But there is no time to remain down, and he’s already pushing himself to stand, a head turned to seek his brothers.

They’re coming. They’re right behind him.

“KEEP GOING!”

The explosions continue around them.  
It was thunder in a tempest, the roar of a storm that descended upon them in the darkness. There is no clear target to see until fire lightens the sky. The ceiling collapses. Smoke curls upwards, blocking out the stars.  
The heat seared Lance’s skin, his arms thrown up to protect himself, his head pounding, shoulder hurts. He can hear his name being called, but he can’t see who is calling for him. 

The base is shaking, the walls groaning, everything being drowned out by the sound of explosions. 

“RUN! RUN NOW!” 

Lance reached out, finding rock to pull himself to stand. He’s facing the wrong way, facing the Galra horde that give chase. They are barrelling towards them, launching over fissures and the cracks in _Genwar’s_ skin. Far beneath, magma boils and spews hot jets of lava skyward.  
There is no time to appreciate her destructive nature. 

Valion turns back to his family.  
Rayon has taken point, Uilt’xen on his back. Kenmare keeps turning, pitching whatever projectiles, he found to take out those that chase them. And above them—

“GUYS MOVE THE CEILING IS COLLAPSING!”

“Valion c’mon, we’ve got to move!” Leonel is beside him, a hand on his wrist, pulling him along. His face is twisted in pain. One of his barbs is snapped cleanly and the poison that he secretes oozes out in black, toxic sludge. But that’s not going to stop him from saving his Brother.

“MOVE!” 

Leonel shoves Valion again, turning to defend against those that got too close. His poison is ineffective against the automation, but the hits of his barbs, despite their injuries, still pack a powerful punch. One perfectly aimed android knocks into his fellow soldiers and they’re all tumbling back, over the edge, into a fire pit that melts them into memory. 

“Valion run!”  
“I’m not leaving without you!” 

_“Valion, you need to… get out… there!_

Lance’s snatched another rifle, taking out two, three, four sentries, but more were coming. They are led by the Base Commander himself who had grown tired of watching from the sidelines. He was Lance’s main target, and the point of focus as he shot, barrelled lined up, one eye closed from the blood that was pouring out the gash in his forehead, his other tearing from smoke and heat.

Adrenaline kept him on his feet where blood loss wouldn’t. 

_“Valion… hurry!”_

The Base Commander went down in a fit of screams, clutching the blood pooling on his chest. 

“RUN!” 

Orvis sees him, charging the distance between her and her prize. 

“VALION!”

He sees the flash of the knife. 

_“Valion… I’m sorry… I can’t…”_

All he felt was pain. 

Then the world crumbled around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter #34 Upload Scheduled for Friday 30th


	34. A Want To Find Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has been gone for too long. But now, the team finally have a definite lead. They know they’re close to Lance. After all this time…

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Inbound to Genwar

They don’t take shelter behind _Genwar’s_ largest moon, like the pirate fleet had done, according to the stolen reports, but instead they take shelter near a cluster of planets at the outer reach of _Genwar’s_ solar system, allowing the use of the Lions, and not the entire castle to enter enemy territory. It didn’t matter the base was weakened since the pirate’s attack; with pirates as prisoners, they would be on high alert concerning the fear of a second attack to free their comrades. That honour would fall to Voltron and the Blade agents that accompanied them. 

Lyla was one such agent, having simply walked onto the ship even without Kolivan’s permission, and remained even after the castle departed from _Filarel._ She stood across from Hunk, decidedly having chosen Pidge to shadow, watching on as the team continued to discuss tactics, having not yet planned a definitive strategy to infiltrate the base. 

“What about here?” Allura asks, leaning over a 3D blueprint of the base pulled up on the holo display. She is gesturing to a part of the base that has been highlighted as damaged, according to the scans Pidge and the other tech-heads of Marmora’s agents could relay from what little reports were aboard the Starfleet.   
One such problem of the mission is, despite having blueprints of the base, it has already been nearly destroyed, or parts of it at least, and with recorded near-constant seismic activity since the Pirate’s attack. Which means the blueprints are inaccurate.   
They may show the best chance of infiltrating would be to the East, where the water intake supplies them with an energy source, but the scans taken from a probe suggest that the tunnel has collapsed, as has the ventilation system on the North side, obliterated under what seems a bomb strike. 

Their planning revolved around guessing and hoping luck was on their side. 

“South?” Lyla suggests, leaning into Pidge’s space to press a finger on her holo-tab at the broken wall, crumbling ceiling and a thousand entry points.  
Pidge was looking at scans they had pulled from previous _Genwar_ records and comparing them to the Galran reports from the compiled data stolen from the warships. Unlike Allura’s 3D model, Pidge only had photographs to work with, trying to get an idea whereabouts the damage was before adjusting the main model to display as such. There was still more to sort through, but so far, they had several detailed maps and a few dozen data logs regarding their next target. 

Lyla’s suggestion pulls Shiro’s attention where he and another, by the name of Qemba are arguing about the sake of infiltration in favour of a full-frontal attack.   
“South?” he repeats, looking to where the Half-Galra points again, this time on the 3D Holo, where an update shows the South wall, close to the edge of the Plateau, have crumbled. But by fire power or _Genwar’s_ earthquakes loosening the stone, it’s hard to say. In any case, there is a weakness in the bases’ defences and Lyla suggests to exploit it. 

“The roof has collapsed, as has this stretch of wall here, all the way to the front tower, but by the probes imagery, that is still in use, if the guards posted here suggests anything.”   
“It’s true that the area provides a lot of entry points. Not only that, but the collapse deems the South hangar unusable to the Galra, so they won’t be anywhere near it. Not if they’re all busy making repairs elsewhere and securing power now that the waterline is broken and the shielding system is down.”  
“Shielding system?”  
“The bombs wouldn’t have got in otherwise,” Lyla says quick before another could answer Pidge’s question for her. She gives the Green Paladin a wide smile, but the Gremlin is too busy looking at the plans to notice. 

Looking at the rubble mountains and lack of guard anywhere near the obvious entry points to the base, it suggested that the idea wasn’t as much a whim as Lyla made it sound. Especially when she continued, facing the rest of the team, eyes flicking regularly to the one sat beside her. “If the pirates damaged the internal aspects of the base as well, then the Hangar will be useless. For now, the Galra will want to focus on regaining communications. They’ve lost contact with the fleet, thanks to you guys, but they’re probably thinking its on their end, which they _believe_ leaves the vulnerable.   
“Their focus will be there, the majority of the workforce helping, rather than standing idle for an attack that will most likely come at night, if they have received the same information like we have concerning the pirates.” 

Lyla speaks fast, precise, answering questions before they can be thought of, let alone voiced.   
All what she said is true: the androids won’t be able to patrol the entire section of wall all at once, and perhaps not as soon as now, considering all the soldiers will need their programming adjusted to counter the damage, if the Galra is to have security without holes.  
And, if it was true in their reports that they lost over half of their units in both the ground fight and the fire fight above. That means their numbers wont’s only be divided on chores, but for the sake of manning the orbiting space station that, as much as the base, remains vulnerable to another strike. 

It was a good plan by all standards, but there was something about it that has Shiro frowning as he listened. Yet it is was Keith who gave the assessment: “It’s an obvious weak spot to the base, and they know this. The pirates brought it to their attention when they decided to attack, considering that this here,” he gestures to the marker at the edge of the plateau, “is where the Pirates decided to infiltrated from. According to the Galra calculations, they scaled the cliff, blew up the wall and sent as many of the workforce as they could out the same direction.”   
“But the Galra won’t expect another attack to use the same methods.”   
“No, but they _are_ expecting another attack. That’s why they called for the fleet, and a prisoner transport ship as soon as possible, so that the Empire can keep the pirates for questioning.”

“If it’s an obvious weak spot, wouldn’t it be the perfect point of entry?”   
Everyone turned to Hunk for his Lance-like logic. Which was to say, _no one else was on the same page._

“I mean, if they’re expecting another attack, and the obvious place to attack would be a giant hole in the base wall, then sure, it would be stupid for any withstanding force to target there. _But,_ it’s so painfully obvious, no one would go for it, because the Galra would _obviously_ be expecting it. Which is the precise reason that the Galra _wouldn’t_ be expecting anyone to infiltrate through the South wall.”

Pidge stared at him like he’d lost his head. Coran and Allura were sharing looks, as were the Marmora; something they did that usually followed questions on strange human customs. Apparently thinking was also done differently done on Earth. Lyla’s attention was focused elsewhere, but the flick of her ears faced Hunk; she had been listening.   
Keith’s expression remained the same and Shiro; kind, benevolent Shiro, didn’t tell Hunk the idea was stupid, only asked him to expand on the plan he had in mind. 

“Green. We use her cloaking mechanisms to get close, like we always do for infiltration. We’ll get to the surface, drop to the South wall and be in amongst the rubble before Green pulls back to wait in the jungle or back in the atmosphere. As far as the scans say, the patrols are approximately ten minutes apart. We can get in just before one, and regroup to get out just after.   
Which sounds easy on paper, but there were complications to a simple milk-run operation. 

The idea wasn’t completely abandoned, even with Keith’s points, but it wasn’t unanimously decided upon until they could think of another way in.   
Pidge, along with the help of Hunk, Coran and Lyla continued to relay scans to the model, with each new upload adding new perspectives, posing new problems and opening up new ideas to allow the team to infiltrate the base. 

They still remained undecided an hour later, until Allura, not having moved from her position near the display, simply raised her voice. “We don’t need to all move as one. If there is more than one entry point, but several goals, then isn’t it logical to divide into pairs and move in groups?” Ah, yes. _Logic._  
But with the stress of another dangerous mission looming, the threat of endangering not only themselves but the captured pirates and the need to free them for that sake of finding Lance, it was understandable that there were distractions in all their minds. Even Allura, who just by chance considered the obstacle of choosing one infiltration point only to find it unbreachable once they were on the ground. This way, there would be the option of falling back to another team’s infiltration point, should one be blocked. 

And so, it was decided: Allura, Shiro, Qemba and another Blade by the name of Vuskyn were to infiltrate the North side, their target the original standing cells from before the base was attacked.   
Pidge and Lyla were to target the East Tower, their infiltration point being the water outlet pipes behind the waterfall to the South, while Hunk and Keith would head to the medical bay, where the probes sent on recon had analysed considerable guards patrolling and defending the ward. If a pirate was to be interrogated, there was little use in letting them die, which suggested one of the prisoners was there, retrieving treatment in the wait to being transferred.   
“It’ll have regular patrols and an increase workforce working on repair. Not to mention extra eye on look out,” Coran warns, not happy of what the mission entails, but knowing it inevitable doesn’t offer his thoughts about postponing until more Blades can be gathered.   
They have flown to the _Balter_ system, following Thrigg’s announcement that another fleet was inbound, this time stronger. If the Marmora were to keep _Balter_ and _Symir_ from Galra control, then they needed to focus their efforts on intercepting. 

Shiro scowled at the screen; a frequent expression he was custom to wear when looking at the monitors recently. “It’ll be certainly harder invading so soon after an attack. They’ll all have their guard up, ready to attack at the first sign of trouble.” Hunk agreed. “I only hope that the pirates don’t attack when we do. It’s been a week, giving them enough time to regroup and plan another mission to save their friends.”   
“You think they will?” Coran looked sceptical at the idea, but then the expression softened. “No, no, I guess you’re right. They have changed.”

Keith’s eyes sparked with an energy at the direction of the conversation. Shiro saw this.   
He was keeping an eye on the younger, out of worry and concern. Even if this was a step in the right direction, Keith was still prone to acting without thought, on instinct alone even this far into their journey.   
With the understanding that Lance was with the pirates and the decreasing distance between him and them, the hopes he was filling himself with effected the changes in his mood, his patience worn thin already, and only continuing to decline, no matter how Shiro tried to approach the subject. He feared that another disappointment would knock Keith down, further than he’d been before and the boy that would climb back up would abandon all caution. Even now, as Keith looked on with a placid expression, there was the inevitable twitch of agitation.   
He may have everyone else fooled, but not Shiro. 

Anger underlay his shell, only apparent from the curl of his hands, the dark glow of faded colour in his purple iris eyes. He was too calm, too cool for normal for the Keith that had nearly abandoned his team for searching for Lance alone, too calm for the Keith who forged ahead and let the team play catch-up. He was yet to explode in anger about the nonsense of going somewhere Lance was not, and focusing on rescuing Pirate Aliens caught on their last mission, successful or otherwise.   
But maybe he had listened enough to know that a link to the pirates was needed. He knew enough that rushing in, head first, would announce their arrival and signal the Galra to use the prisoners as living-shields. If contact with the remaining pirate fleet was to be had after the mission, it wouldn’t do well to kill their only “bargaining chips.” 

They had all seen the files Regris pulled, listing the enemies plans to ship five individuals to _Talladega._  
Hunk had been the one to suggest that rescuing the pirates would see Voltron in a good light, and effectively wipe the slate clean when it came to wanting to meet and discuss the case of Lance. The initial target had been the Hycis, but them having been rescued didn’t change the fact that the pirates needed rescuing too. Even so, it was risky. That went without saying. 

But what of the approach, Shiro found himself thinking, while the team focused on the details. Were they to be open from the beginning, to tell the rescued Aliens that this was in hopes of an alliance, or did they play it off as convenient chance that the prisoners were right where they planned to strike the Galra?   
The man shook his head. They hadn’t even infiltrated _Genwar_ yet. They had to take this one mission at a time. 

“Yes, their attitude has changed. We’ll have to keep in mind that they’ll make their move, and whatever plan we have could change drastically.”   
“Fingers on triggers then.” 

As already noted from probes sent to _Genwar_ to investigate, the Galran space control remains as nothing but debris in the outer-atmosphere, which would provide plenty of cover for the Castle, allowing it to remain close enough to provide support should the Paladins need it. Coran activated a temporary gravitational field around the Castle, which pulled the large sheets of heat-warped metal closer, like some makeshift camouflage.   
Any drone patrol would register the mass as Galran tech and nothing more than the destroyed monitoring system, leaving the Castle in peace, close enough to scan the on-world base for a more detailed analysis of what was left. 

The scan found that the containment cells were still intact, with enough sentry activity to suggest that the pirates were indeed being held there. Pidge’s scan for heat signatures and heartbeats discovered two dozen Galra soldiers or so, ignoring the androids that obviously wouldn’t be detected on the scan. While all were spread out around the base, leading Galran patrols or working damage control and such, one still remained stationary in the identified medical wing, the readings somewhat distorted. Another scan showed that the person in question was being guarded by a half-dozen soldiers; one Galran, the rest robots. 

“I think that prisoner is in a Cryogen chamber,” Pidge said, cross-referencing the location with blueprints again, trying to figure out why the reading weren’t coming back with a steady heartbeat. “The fifth prisoner must still be severely injured if they are yet to be returned to the cells.”   
“I’m just thankful they’re even bothering to heal them, considering they are the enemy,” Hunk says, his voice not quite it’s usual honey-gold as he leans in to Pidge’s personal space, the genius pair sharing thoughts. Lyla scowled but she wasn’t noticed. 

“They need them for questioning.” Eyes turn to Vuskyn. “They will already have four sources of information to compare to one another. Questioning the fifth will let them see where intel collides and where is crosses. Then they simply have to continue questioning until all the stories are similar enough without the prisoners having a chance to speak to one another and confer an alternate story. It is basic interrogation knowledge.”   
The Blade’s words sucked the warmth from the room. The emotion behind them was enough to make anyone feel sick. They knew what he meant by _questioning._ Shiro most of all. 

“Then we have no time to lose. We already know our targets. Coran, you and Regris will remain on the Castle, manning the scanners. You’ll act as our bird-eye-view advantage.” 

The Black Paladin looked to his team, wishing them all good luck before dismissing them, his eyes lingering worriedly on Keith’s back as he took point from the Bridge, all too ready to take his anger out on the Galra.   
To him, rescue was secondary.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Alright team. Stick to the plan and we can get in and out before the Galra even realise we’re here.”  
“If we’re lucky,” Pidge mutters, their snark hiding their underlining concern, but it’s a familiar emotion that accompanies them all when they go up against the enemy. This rescue mission was no different, even if it saw Pidge away from the main action compared to the other four. _Well someone has to be on lookout duty,_ Pidge grumbled to themselves, but there was no real bite to their tone, knowing that the task of recalling information, not just for themselves, but for the Marmora too when it came to future endeavours. While everyone recovered the prisoners, Pidge and Lyla could grasp the opportunity to scrounge up information. Pidge was going to focus on searching for their missing family, Lance included, on the hope that maybe _Genwar_ had caught wind of the Blue Paladin and not reported… There wasn’t a reason for such; it’s just wishful thinking.  
A very Human trait, but one Pidge adopts nonetheless. The entire team does.

The Green Paladin piloted their Lion across the expanse of the Rainforest, feeling Green’s comfort from the familiarity of life force, even if the scars of battle held fast in large burns that scorched the earth and blackened the trunks of great, towering trees. They engaged the cloaking shield before they left the canopy cover, shooting up the face of the Plateau as quick as they could, in hopes of making the drop within the seven Dobosh window that remained. 

There are no words to either Hunk or Keith, only a nod in encouragement and farewell alike, before they leave the cockpit. Green hums in Pidge’s mind, telling them that the other two are in position, and at the height of momentum, before gravity engages and pulls Green back down to the jungle floor, Pidge orders her to release those that wait in his chest.   
Keith and Hunk hit the ground running, darting into the tumbled destruction before the plateau swallows Pidge’s vision and they’re falling back to the floor. Only, rather than returning to the jungle, Green engages thrusters and pushes past the wall of water that hides the cavern behind it, littered with interlinking tunnels and the inevitable water outlet pipes that would be their way in. 

“Nice flying,” Lyla grins, never an arm’s distance from Pidge’s side as they hide Green in a large cavern and retreat to the upper levels using the thrusters on their backs. The grate to the water outlet system is easy to identify, and the flow of water is barely anymore than a trickle, meaning Pidge doesn’t have to test the capabilities of the thrusters against a powerful flow of water. Lyla takes them by the hand and pulls them into the pipe afterwards, wearing a child’s grin as they shoot upwards, towards the base’s main generators. Just a couple of alterations and they should be able to take control of the majority of the systems, including power shortages in doors, locking patrols off and cutting supply to the containment cells. 

Lyla disposed of the guards in an uncoordinated manner of jumping and flipping and throwing things, but it got the job done. If Pidge knew better, they’d think the Blade was showing off.   
She turned back to the shorter, that child-like grin flashing wide across their face. “C’mon. Let’s see what havoc we can cause.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The air trickled with tension, both Paladins remaining silent as they steal closer to their desired prize.  
Keith felt the worst of it.

Hunk watched him, eyes fixed to his friend crouched low beside him, his mind torn between the responsibility of the mission that sees them in enemy territory and the responsibility of a best friend who wants to look out for Keith, suffering still, despite the strength he bares to hide it. The news of a lead on Lance has reignited the hope in the rest of them, but Keith, who’s candles was but wax in his hands, the flame too close to burning skin was reaching the point of breaking. He was as frail as ice, having never given himself a chance to believe in defeat, not even for a second.   
The rest of the team had their chance, their fears spoken to one another, not giving up for Lance’s sake, but maybe Keith’s too. Deep down, they had all healed. Maybe they had even come to terms with their uncertain future, having already learnt to conceal emotion and only bring it out when they felt safe in the company with their friends. But Keith was different. He hadn’t healed. He hadn’t considered. He hadn’t let Lance slip from his mind, not even for a moment. 

Hunk knows Lance’s decisions have always affected Keith differently, since on Earth, with seemingly ignoring the irritating rival and the loud-mouth in class. Shiro’s disappearance caused the boy to drop off the rails, and it was no secret that his own realisation of his birth-mother having been Galran had driven a wedge between him and the group. _Almost._  
It would’ve driven them apart if Keith had let it; not one to build bridges after others burn them down.   
Which was why Hunk was concerned with the attitude towards Lance. The others too. Of course they all wanted the happy-go lucky sharpshooter back. Of course, they all worried about him, doubt of him still being alive niggling in the backs of their minds…

Hunk looked to the Red Paladin beside him. His eyes are still unfocused, seeing past the soldier that lays fallen at his feet, past the walls of the labyrinth around them, to the someone he has been chasing, ever since he left, desperate to be reunited for a friend whom he had struggled to hold onto as more.  
Now hidden love is marred by his feelings of guilt, denied once and denied still, only until _after_ they find Lance and he apologises for all the mistakes he has made, has _ever_ made and for all those things he should’ve said…. 

Another soldier falls to Keith’s blade, his eyes sparking yellow in retaliation to the charged laser that failed to meet its mark. Keith is always angry, underneath it all. Underneath the hurt, the pain, the fear and the worry, he is angry.   
Towards himself and towards the distraction of this mission that stands as only a step between them and Lance. He wants it over. He wants it done. He wants Lance and he wants him _now._

_“Keith wait,”_ but there’s no use. Keith launches forward, his body shaking shakes with fiery energy as he takes down the two that block his path, a third that rounds the corner and the power system for the lights to the corridor. He shoves his blade into the slit of a door, forces it open and he’s hiding his destruction without a word, not too consumed in anger to forget that raising the alarm will endanger, not only the team, but the prisoners and the only stepping stone between this rescue mission and the next: _Lance._

“Slow down,” Hunk says softly. Keith turns to him, narrow eyes, his mouth a thin line of pressed lips and sharp teeth. Hunk stands his ground; waiting for the outburst, the anger, the accusations that they had given up on looking—  
But it doesn’t come. Instead, Keith bows his head, shifts his blade and falls instep to Hunk. He was a Paladin of Voltron. Even without Lance, he still had a duty to the Universe, to those under Galra control and those that were still in danger. Keith hadn’t forgotten that.   
But neither had he given up.   
He had never given up, on Lance _or_ on fighting the long war. He just gave preference to his focus for one over the other, but letting neither cloud his judgement towards his responsibilities as part of the team. Never giving up, taking challenges in his stride as they continued their search for Lance. 

To Hunk, it still felt like yesterday when Lance left them. It felt like yesterday when Hunk had stumbled into the med-bay after Shiro, eyes wide at the sight of the empty stasis chamber. Open but empty; the Blue Paladin missing.   
It felt like only yesterday, he found himself lost, adrift from one moment and the next, his mind scattered and fragmented until the moment he saw his best-friend cowering outside the bridge, overhearing the words that took him from being a Paladin of Voltron to being nobody, dragged to space and left to hold the weight of the Universe. It didn’t matter that poison twisted his mind; none of them had seen and none of them had stopped him.   
None of them had found him. 

Hunk didn’t care if Shiro agreed, allowing Allura to pilot Blue. It wasn’t going to be permanent, or at least they hadn’t planned it to be.   
But with everyday, she grew stronger, the team slowly accepting her as a fellow soldier more and more, so close to forming Voltron, hopefully ready when the time called for it. 

_Maybe this was it._

Maybe, even if they found Lance, he wouldn’t _want_ to return, and maybe Allura was his replacement, like he had foreseen.

_Maybe Lance already knew it was permanent._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Shiro had the foresight not to abandon the team on the planet with only the Green Lion to rely on.  
Instead, the teams divided from the beginning, with Pidge, Lyla, Hunk and Keith taking Green to the waterfall while Allura would pilot Pidge’s modified shuttle, carrying Shiro, Vuskyn and Qemba to the blind spot amongst the Northern collapsed walls. It was risky, leaving them only four Dobosh to conceal the ship before pushing past the Galra’s defences, and heading to the containment cells.

Shiro hoped Hunk and the others would have an easier time infiltrating on their end, hoping that the water outlet pipes weren’t alarmed, and if it had been once, then the limited power of the base was being rerouted to the holding cells and med bay. That was the hope at least. 

Shiro’s team managed to get past the guard’s perimeter without being detected, and into the lower halls as much the same. It was eerily quiet, with only the echoing sounds of metalwork where the guards reinforced unstable caverns walls to prevent any more cave-ins. _Genwar_ still hadn’t calmed from where her core had come under pressure due to the attack. It had barely been four Dobosh since the last quake before the group take cover as another trembles under their feet.  
“Well that’s comforting,” Qemba grumbles, staring at the ground with fake irritation. The quavering of his voice didn’t go unmissed by the Black Paladin. “It’s best if we hurry this along. The longer we’re in the base, the more we risk getting seen.”   
“No complaints here,” Vuskyn says before he takes the lead, Qemba falling in step behind him. They whisper to one another, the taller getting gradually louder as he defends himself, but with a slap to the back of the head, Qemba falls silent. 

“You’re worried about something.”   
Allura’s words were whispered, but from the slight hesitation in Shiro’s body before following the quibbling Braves, she knows that her words have been heard. Their steps delay, breathing room between themselves and the others, knowingly allowing the space to grow, but not enough that they will hamper their mission.   
Qemba turns his head, gives a brief nod and then he and Vuskyn scout ahead. 

Allura doesn’t push Shiro again, knowing that he just needs a little time. There is barely a breath before he smiles, admittingly, and turns to face her. “You’ll have to be a little more specific there, Princess. There’s a lot I’m worried about.”   
“Lance?”  
“Isn’t that obvious.”   
It is too obvious an answer, enough that Shiro knew Allura wasn’t talking about Lance. She didn’t elaborate though, allowing Shiro to fill the silence himself as they crept slowly through the mining tunnels, catching sight of Qemba crouched behind a stalagmite. Vuskyn was further ahead.   
_Genwar_ trembles beneath them, all pushing themselves to the ground to steady themselves, but the tremor is only minor and it doesn’t last too long before all is still and all is silent. 

The attack on the base, and _Genwar’s_ on tantrum had done more damage than the team initially realised, and they had to make several course changes, backtracking and criss-crossing their own path to avoid collapsed tunnels, blockades and the bulk of the Galra workforce trying to clear out the mine shafts and resume their mining efforts for the Hexhoth quartz.   
Even with half the Base’s security pulled from guard duty for the sake of bolstering manpower that focused on clearing the rubble, the numbers were still condensed in the areas the team needed to pass through, in order to reach their goal. It was maddening. 

“Are you worried, Princess?” Which was another dumb question, but the pair seemed to enjoy beating around the bush rather than ripping it from the ground and setting it a flame.   
“I’m worried about the others.” 

The Black Paladin stopped then, or at least long enough that he and Allura were shoulder to shoulder, sneaking alongside one another, occasionally throwing glances over their shoulders too, to make sure no one was following. They knew Pidge and Lyla would warn them of approaching patrols, but they’d rather not be caught off-guard if they could help it. 

“Yes, I’m worried for them too. Hunk won’t consider Lance’s death, but I fear trying to come to the conclusion that Lance is living happily elsewhere is just as painful, if not worse so. It might breed hurt in him, and Hunk is… He’s strong, but Lance was his best friend.”   
Allura nods along, having considered the same. “I thought Pidge would struggle, but they’ve been my support more than I’ve been there’s.”   
“Pidge already lost Matt and Sam. Losing another brother is hard for them, but Pidge already knows how to compartmentalise their emotions to be able to ignore emotion in favour of searching for clues. It’s not good, but perhaps Pidge understands the most out of all of us. It’s why they’ve been able to do as much as they have and not get dragged down too far.” 

“And Keith?”  
Shiro shook his head. “Keith’s…. Keith is different to how I thought he’d be. I expected anger, a lot more blame maybe, but I thought that he’d come to terms with his emotions and he’d be looking at this all with a more logical mind. But with Lance, he’s held onto everything, like he won’t let himself forget for a moment.” Maybe he believes letting himself stop and breathe will allow another problem to take his focus and Lance will be forgotten and just become another face in the sea of strangers that Voltron failed to protect.   
But he wasn’t a stranger. He was _Lance._

“Instead of calming his mind, it’s like he’s becoming more and more frantic. He’s become obsessed with finding him, not that I’m faulting his energy for the sake of rescuing him. I’ve never seen Keith like this before and, honestly, _it scares me.”_ Shiro kept his eyes straight ahead, aware of the Princess’s eyes upon him. Now wasn’t the best time for a heart to heart, but that didn’t deter either of them.   
They had shared many over the past months since everything had fallen apart; Shiro needing someone to talk to more than ever after having fought with Keith and unable to talk calmly without stirring up any more pain for either of them, and anyone who caught the brunt of the backlash.   
Even Keith’s temporary shelter with Hunk had been hurt from careless words, and despite Hunk’s repeated apologies, they were doing little in ways of wearing down the boy’s walls. Maybe it was for his own sake he sought Keith’s companionship, as to fill the void that Lance left, although Shiro knew the Yellow Paladin wouldn’t do such a thing, even if Lance had died and this six-man-team was their permanent future.   
Maybe it still was. 

“I guess I’m still with Hunk in the worry that, even if our efforts bear fruit and we find Lance… that he won’t come back to us. And I can’t help but worry that, if Lance is gone, dead or with others, that maybe he is never coming back.  
“I worry how the others will react. Whether they’ll hate him for his choice, whether they’ll respect his decision. I worry for their reactions.” 

He stopped walking, eyes glazed, watching an uncertain future unfold within his mind. 

“What if they choose to leave too. What if Pidge wants to focus on finding Matt and Sam, what if Hunk can’t take the loss anymore and returns to Earth. What if chasing after Lance and finding answers we don’t want breaks Voltron.   
“Lance almost broke it once, and that was before he left, when he was just fighting even if it wasn’t really him. We were lucky that we didn’t understand the weight of his actions at the time, keeping us together… But I fear for the future.”

“And honestly, I hate myself for it, but I think I would prefer him dead. I’ve even wished him dead, Allura,” the man says, his voice wavering on those earth-shattering words, meeting her eyes with his own tearing ones. “I’ve wished him dead too many times to count and I… I don’t know what to think anymore. I don’t _want_ to think anymore.” 

He’s said too much, too soon, and it scares him. Shiro pushes ahead, meeting Qemba’s side, falling in time as they walk in silence.   
Allura is left to her own thoughts. She doesn’t blame Shiro for the desire that Lance is free from whatever pain may find him in this vast universe, torn apart by war. But not once has she wished him dead. Wished him safe aplenty, but never dead.   
She wouldn’t blame Lance for wanting to stay away from Voltron, but there is still hurt in the understanding that Lance hasn’t reached out to them, after all this time. 

So much damage had been wrought by a simple act by one single boy.   
Allura was but one to witness the damage left behind, not just in the others but Shiro too, who hides his pain and dons the mantle of Voltron’s unwavering, dependable Leader the Universe needs him to be.   
But Shiro was Human too. And there comes a breaking point. 

Allura watched Shiro, the man that she respected, who had come far from the man that was stolen from his world, now the leading force behind the Empire’s most formidable enemy. Even if he didn’t trust himself with his fears, he trusted Allura enough to show his weakness. And she wouldn’t judge him any less for what he told her, not when the man was beginning to buckle under the weight of everything. He needed her to be his strength for once, and she was going to stand by him through thick and thin. 

The future isn’t set in stone: her father had taught her that. It depends on what they did here, now.  
Now is for saving enslaved prisoners that will hopefully lead them to Lance. And if he wasn’t with them, then they would be a valuable alliance in the war. The growing coalition would give more eyes and ears in their search for their Paladin, more guns and blades to fight the Galra that would seek to bring him harm. If the others chose to leave them, then that was their decision to make, but Allura didn’t share the same fear. Even if Keith had threatened as such, he was still here, still fighting, knowing that the act of abandoning his family would bring more harm than good. 

Tomorrow was for other fears.   
Now was for trusting one another. Now was for supporting one another and rescuing allies.   
Now was for securing the path that would lead them to the truth.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

There wasn’t much further to go until Keith and Hunk reached their desire location, referenced to the mini-map that glows in the corner of their visor displays, courtesy of Regris taking a shine to Pidge’s previous work in modifying the visor’s for more practical applications.  
The Marmora already had such features fixed in their masks, and already having the building blocks, courtesy of the Green Paladin, Regris simply had to transfer some files and the entire team were given real-time locations that would feed back to the main HUB on the Castle Bridge. It wasn’t just for the team’s sake, with their ability to see the others7 at all times, but also for Coran who had the capabilities to scan the entire base and keep an eye on the cold-signatures of the working patrolling sentries, should any divert from their programmed patrol route.  
They would take any and every precaution _not_ to lose another Paladin.

There were no questions from the team, only praise, and again when Pidge explained that even if one of the team was to lose contact with the Castle, be it from planetary disruptions or a Galran jammer, then the map itself wouldn’t be lost, only the live-data. Pidge hadn’t been sure if the mineable Hexhoth crystal would also be a problem for transmission when they reached the tunnels, but whatever it was, they wanted every base covered and this certainly helped.   
Team Punk were very for the scout’s motto of _“Be Prepared,”_ having worked closely with one another and the team to take into account every possible disaster that may or may not come into effect whilst the team undertook their mission.   
They had all learnt valuable lessons from Lance. They were never _making_ a stupid mistake again.

_“We have reached the fifth level,”_ Shiro says, his voice warped from the Comms. _“We’re still a little way off of the containment cells, but it looks like we’re going to have to take a detour. The tunnels underneath the collapsed wall are crawling with drones, trying to fix what was damaged. We can’t sneak past and there’s no chance to taking out them all out before an alarm is raised.”_  
Their leader has that edge to his voice, the slight off tone that reveals his uneasiness by their mission, in ode to the fact they’re knee-deep in a Galra base. He can try and hide it, try and pretend he’s fine with being back behind purple walls and android patrolled corridors, but they all know Shiro would rather be anywhere else.  
 _They’d all rather be anywhere else,_ somewhere safer, some different Universe that hasn’t got shitty Galra Empires enslaving people left right and centre. But they all do their part as Voltron Paladin, to keep the entire known-Universe from being controlled.

Keith can hear Qemba argue Shiro’s theory, but it isn’t strong enough to suggest that he’s questioning the choice to divert their planned route. He knows the soldier from fighting on the frontlines with him, knowing the Qemba holds the same value towards distractions and round-about ways of achieving goals.   
Keith had been surprised, somewhat, when Kolivan had pushed him to helping Voltron on their rescue mission. But any qualms were dispelled when Vuskyn joined them. He may have been shorter and not as intimidating, but Vuskyn could tame any wild beast, even one as destructive as Qemba. 

There was noise through the Comms, the sound of falling rock and Allura cursing to herself. _“Quiznak, Quiznak! Maltok’s teeth, there’s more coming. Coran, is there another route that will take us to the cells without having to go forward. There are more patrols coming from our right.”_

Keith let his eyes glance to the mini-map, to the black, pink and matching purple blips – _colour-coded because what are we, animals?_ – three floors down, towards the West of the base, already off route from too many collapsed tunnels and swarming corridors. He can see a warren of mining tunnels underneath them, and several structural points that will lead them to the surface, but there are none direct to their goal—  
“Keith. _Keith.”_

Hunk pulls the Red Paladin’s attention from his HUD to the present where their own route has been cut off by a half dozen of soldiers heading their way. “Keith, we have to move.”   
Keith can’t focus on Shiro or the danger that faces the other team, not when he and Hunk are about to be spied in a corridor with no alternative hiding places to the crevices in the broken walls they’ve pushed themselves into. Another few steps and the sentries will be one them and it won’t just be Shiro’s team that are backed into a corner—

The door far behind them makes a quick trill – the sound of the lock system disengaging. _Shit, fuck, shitting bloody—_  
 _“It’s just me Pattit,” _ comes the voice in the boy’s ear. He doesn’t appreciate Lyla using Antok’s nickname for him, especially considering he still doesn’t know what it means.   
Yet, he does appreciate the distraction that calls the android’s attention and they march right past his and Hunk’s hiding place at a fast-paced march, taking themselves into the previously locked room, only to have the door shut and lock behind them. 

Beyond the comms, they hear Coran directing the others back to an easier route, Pidge helping from their own perch in the East control tower.   
He can breathe again. 

Keith knows he has to take the lead from the others, and shove his insecurities down so that he can focus on the here and now. He knew the dangers that type of thinking would bring; the self blame, the anger, the distraction that could get him killed, get Hunk killed. Get all of them killed.   
But no, not right now, he had to ignore it. _Ignore it, ignore it. Focus on the here and now. Get in, get Lance, get out—_

“Keith do we—”  
“Let’s keep moving Hunk. We haven’t got long until someone comes searching for the missing patrol and we all need to be long gone before that happens.” They needed to get in, rescue the prisoners and get out. Then they could leave this godforsaken planets and head to where he inevitably waited. 

Keith can barely say _his_ name without emotion bubbling up and over; a volcano of feelings to which he can’t find the stopper. But now, it’s all worse, since Hunk spoke and planted the seed inside the boy’s mind that it isn’t as he feared; that Lance isn’t gone, he isn’t dead or injured, but in fact just another in the ranks of many who stand against the Galra.   
Keith fears that what the big guy said was true; that Lance turned his back on the Paladins for good, that he found a new family, a new life and doesn’t want to return.   
What if in these past months, Lance has given up the fight, maybe even tried to get back to Earth. Maybe he tried, but along the way he found another planet instead and has made a home there. 

What if, when Lance left, he truly believed the Paladins thought him useless and hated him?   
What if Lance believed it, with his entire being, after hearing those hurtful, careless words?   
And maybe it was true, that when he left, he left hating all of them, and hates them still. Even now as the Paladins desperately yearn for their lost brother.  
 _It’s better than being tortured and beaten, here in the monster’s den._

Keith can feel the fear tearing at him from the inside. Scratching at his eyes, burning his throat, stealing the air from his lungs. Tears are a near constant companion, only released in solitary. Anger and uncontrollable episodes of explosive loathing keep him company, there just to remind him he couldn’t even mourn properly. No, not mourn. _Lance wasn’t dead._  
Keith would only believe that when he held the boys broken and bloody body in his own hands…

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“There, up ahead.”  
Pidge had spotted them while Lyla had been practising the art of messing with the sentries’ functioning systems, confusing them before taking her small switchblade to the exposed wiring under their chins. She’s having fun, Pidge can see that, and it irks them to no end that the damn Blade can prance about like lives don’t hang in the balance of victory.

“Lyla, take point.” If Lyla wanted to prance about, then she can prance about while taking out soldiers.   
There are two of them, stood beside one another, outside the door to the East Tower like old-fashioned knights on watch duty. They’ve got their guns held close to their chests, ready to fire if, and when necessary, but there is no time for either to react when Lyla swings from the ceiling and renders them disabled before they can do much more than let out noises of surprise. 

Their heads roll to the floor with a loud clatter, complete with sparks and incessant bleeping of filing systems that attracts the attention of the other two on-duty sentries standing guard inside the room. They ran right into Lyla’s blade, decapitated and legless before Pidge can wonder if they need to provide support. 

They have the system at their control, allowing Lyla to take lead in watching the teams, referring to Coran for locations and the base’s own inner security system to locate work operations and patrol routes. A little scrambling of information and Lyla successful diverts attention to patrolling in circles that give little sight to the Paladin’s own, infiltration operations. The security on the containment cells can’t be hacked for security reasons, but Lyla can at least upload alternative blueprints to the remaining soldiers that suggest the containment cells are in fact near _Genwar’s_ core. _Genwar’s_ volatile, breaking core… 

Pidge’s focus remains on trying to find more details that were omitted from the reports taken by the fleet. There were bound to be things that weren’t bothered to report over the initial call for support following the raid, and the expressive reasoning that another attack would be imminent and the base needed support in defending it. Hence the fleet. 

Pidge begins searching for details on the prisoners, especially the one that is being contained in the med-bay. For the sake of healing them back on the Castle it would be smart to understand the extent of their injuries, inflicted from the raid or afterwards, but important enough in the understanding that they can heal their quarry quickly and get to the all-important trust exercises. They need to harbour trust before they took steps for asking about Lance or trying to build an alliance between the two parties. 

Coran helped from his position on the ship, taking data sent his way while trying to bypass the limitations of the scanner, yet the vitrified medical cryogenic chamber wouldn’t let the scanners pull anything off of it, other than a slow heartbeat and a barely-warm heat signature.   
The bases’ files for the infirmary were locked, but Regris was there to help hack his way past firewalls and security algorithms, leaving Pidge to divert attention to taking cover when _Genwar_ shook again. The quake was larger than the previous, but having been on exploding planets aplenty, Pidge wasn’t too concerned, knowing the Galra wouldn’t have built the base here if they didn’t have the necessary precautions in effect to counter the seismic activity.   
It wasn’t like the base was badly damaged and suffering from power shortages that would affect these counteractions…

The files on the containment files were not locked, but there was little in terms of damage to the prisoners other than notes of refusal to give up information, even when threatened with extreme cases of violence. The Officer in charge had made notes about passing responsibility to a _“Kittul”_ but they hadn’t made any notes of their own and the only information that was recorded stated that the prisoners were resilient and already known information had been notified as _false_ following Djalg patrols searching the planet’s _Uris_ and _Jastra_ in nearby systems. 

All Pidge understood was that these were indeed part of the rogue force, and not Hycis. The denizens of Genwar had been successfully freed by the previous mission. It was admirable in a sense, that they had managed to free the people, but had to sacrifice their own to do it. Like a poetic Shakespearean story.   
But war wasn’t pretty and the Galra were ruthless against their enemies and even more so with their prisoners.   
The Paladins would save them, as was their duty to the mantle that which they upheld.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

They were two floors directly under their target.  
But that was it: two floors _under._ Not very helpful. Still, the main elevator shaft was just up ahead and by the secured scans from the fleet, it was one of many that received structural damage to its outer construction, deeming it unusable by the Galra and a perfect up-shot for Hunk and Keith.

The Red remained on watch for Hunk as he darted across the corridor to the doors, too much in the open of the mid-section from several corridors. There was no hiding place should a patrol entire any of the seven passages, but there was no other choice. Pidge had rerouted them power as requested, but no matter how many times Hunk punches in the order for the doors to open, the ignore him and remain stubbornly closed. 

Keith hears footsteps.   
“Fuck it Hunk, just help me force it,” and he’s over by the doors, his Marmora blade shoved between the slit like he had done earlier. They push on the handle, forcing the doors to begrudgingly shift, wider and wider until they’re both in, clinging onto the pipes in the wall before they can fall the thirty floors to the lowest level. 

“This is easier than I thought it’d be,” Hunk snarks from his wall, swapping between thrusters and a mix of hand-over-hand climbing, considering the small space leaves little room for manoeuvrability and the echoing of their thrusters will bring unwanted attention. Although after earlier, Hunk has considered the possibility of the androids suffering damage to their internal auditory drives have been damaged. If only their oculus sensors had too, then the entire mission would be a stroll in the park, and not testing the limits of his physical abilities. 

The jest wasn’t heard by Keith, too caught up in his own mind to reply, or to allow himself the moment not to be constantly staring over his shoulder for soldiers who would bar his path from his friend.   
Keith knows not to think about Lance. He knows not to let his mind get swarmed by the thoughts until his head is nothing but a hive of buzzing noise, unable to pull apart individual ideas, only able to feel the emotional stress instead. He knows he’s not good at this, his family lifestyle hasn’t even been perfect. Not since his dad disappeared, not since the orphanage. There had been a moment, when Shiro and Adam took him under their wing, but then Shiro disappeared too and Keith soon after.   
It would never be easy, he knew that from day one. He’d let himself think it was for the sake of the Universe, for the sake of everyone else that Keith denied his feelings for Lance and the hope of anything more was just a self-indulgent fantasy. He deluded himself into believing he’d disallow himself happiness for the sake of keeping his focus on the war.   
He thought it would be better for all of them if Lance kept his distance from poor broken Keith who that destroyed everything he touched. Lance too. 

_Yeah fucking right._

Keith didn’t need to involve his feelings to break Lance. Ignoring the reaching hand that sought friendship, comradery, even just a glance in his direction with a supportive smile and a nod of approval. But Keith couldn’t give it because he knew if he allowed himself that much then he’d want more and more _and more and more and more_ until friendship and comradery weren’t enough. They’d never be enough. 

Because Keith wanted Lance.   
But he can’t say it out loud. It’s hard, knowing that every time he mentions something, _anything,_ it won’t be followed up by bratty insults and childish little remarks. He won’t be able to snark back and start the inevitable feud, listening to Lance insult his hair or his _‘bad attitude.’_ Things Keith never would’ve thought he’d miss, but things he finds himself wishing to hear. 

“Alright, this is the floor,” Hunk says, once again saving Keith from his downward spiral. Or putting it on hold for just a moment longer.   
Keith had to stop over-thinking everything. He had to focus.   
It was simple:

_Get in._

_Get Lance._

_Get out._

Because Keith knows Lance is here. He has to be.   
The idiot isn’t only fighting alongside the pirates, but he has convinced them to turn their aim from innocents to the enemies. He wouldn’t let himself remain in the ships, fighting behind a turret to shoot Djalg out of the sky. No, Lance would insist in being a part of the action. He’d be on the ground, with his new comrades freeing prisoners and blasting android heads away.   
And he’d be here, in the base, having sacrificed his freedom for the sake of getting the Hycis out. 

The Base Commander wouldn’t have reported the capture of a Paladin over radio in case and power-hungry fool tried to steal his quarry. No, the sensible action would be to order the fleet, to escort the prisoner himself to _Talladega_ and onto _Everall._  
And Lance, already tortured for the sake of being tortured, or questioned on the whereabouts of Voltron, on their secrets, their weaknesses, _anything_ in order for the Galra to defeat them… well, there was no limit to a Galran’s violence. He would’ve been beaten to an inch of his life, then thrown in a healing pod to preserve him so that Zarkon can deal the final blow for the entire universe to witness.   
_Vile, disgusting, weak, cowardice—_

Keith forgets himself for a moment, his anger taking hold and his screams echoing in the corridor littered with robot corpses and scorch marks that burn deep into the walls. “Keith, calm down, Keith!” Hunk holds tight to his shoulders, his shouts pulling him back from rage and blood and _red-hot anger that burns his skin and boils his blood—_  
“Keith, calm down!” The others call to him through his comms, worried because they can’t see him, can’t help him, can’t give him any more support than empty words. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just… my head got away from me. I saw things I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.” They understand and there is no reproach, not yet anyway, when Keith worries them all. He worries himself.   
He’s never lost control like this before, but somehow, when it comes to Lance, he can’t help but _feel,_ even when he choses to lock away such emotions until _after._

After.

After.

_After._

They turn together, standing shoulder to shoulder with one another as they face the door that will lead them to the med-bay.

Keith will allow himself to feel, but only after he saves Lance.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

It took a bit of time, more than they hoped it would take, but it wasn’t long until the four of them were just steps away from the cells. With Pidge’s cross-section and their voice in Shiro’s

ear guiding him most of the way, they managed to reach the tunnel without running into many guards. But that did mean _a lot_ of detours. “Pidge, we’re here. It’s just the door now. You think you can hack it and keep the alarms from going off?” Shiro asked, pressing close to the shadows in case a unit made their way to the cells for an impromptu check-up of their resident guests. Vuskyn is beside him, Allura on the opposite side of the room while Qemba crouches directly in front of the doors, ready to take out the guards inside.   
The previous scans show there are a dozen, and with their closed-off systems keeping them from Lyla and Pidge’s hacking, the only way they’ll be disposed of is good ol’ fashioned violence. There were also Drones on duty, but the tasks of taking them out had been divided up between Allura and Vuskyn, leaving Shiro and the Blade Soldier to take out the robots. 

_“Alright, entrance coming up,”_ Pidge says into the Comms, _“but be warned, the alarm system is also separate. Take out all the soldiers or you’re looking at the entire base coming down on your asses as soon as you trip the wire. Lyla’s managed to change codes that half the soldiers will head to the lowest level, but that still leaves a few hundred hot on your tail as soon as the alarms go up.”_

Three ticks, two ticks, one tick and the giant doors that stretch from base to the curving ceiling of the tunnel begin to move. 

“You have three and a half Dobosh once I get the field generators offline. The alarm system is hooked up to the entire base. I’ve warned Hunk and Keith, but they’re already at their floor.” Lyla suggests hacking the security system, but even with Pidge, Lyla and Regris working together, the integral system will alert at even a _hint_ of hacking, and the entire base will be thrown on lock-down, trapping the teams separately. 

The doors open a shift more and Shiro sprints from his hiding place, in Qemba’s shadow for a moment before breaking away and targeting the nearest guard who had been one of the few to look questioningly towards the door. There is barely any resistance as the hum of his hand meets metal spyware and the fizzle of fried circuits is the only sound of resistance before the guard falls. 

They hear a scream, eyes cast to a non-Galra stood in the middle of the room, wide eyes upon the four that had charged in, taking out many guards at once. But Shiro can’t focus on the alien yet, as lasers fire over his head; three drones falling at his feet. He ignores them, umps the obstacle and slams his palm into the chest of a sentry, digging deep enough it becomes a shield against the rifles that fire down from the floor above. Vuskyn and Allura make them their priority, Allura with her scale-whip and the Blade with his precision blasters that sit on the back of his hand, doubling as energy shields when the sentries fire back. 

“Don’t let them sound the alarm,” Shiro orders, even if the words are obsolete and everyone understands that they _can’t_ allow the Galra to inform the rest of the base they are under attack. They threw themselves into the fight, working with one another to cut the numbers to half and continue to cut them down. The non-Galra is no longer in the middle of the room but on the far side, cowering near a wall, holding onto a knife that she had found, if only to protect herself from the new strangers that have blasted their way in. 

The team fights well even without previous practise with one another, all understanding the need for victory and the weight of defeat should they fail. Shiro is impressed by Qemba’s flexibility despite his head-on hack-and-slash approach, providing a leg-up for Allura who is literally thrown to the second level where she can block off the door to the control panel that allows the sentries to send a base-wide transmission. They push her but she pushes back. 

Vuskyn takes the remaining drones before they can target the Princess, Shiro finishing up on the first level, Qemba enjoying his battle a little too much as he abandons his sword and twists the head of an enemy with his bare hands, giving a celebratory cheer when the head disconnects and falls to the floor alongside the unresponsive body. 

That is the last of them, finally allowing the team a chance to breathe. They turn to the other, still on the far side of the room, the knife held in two shaking hands. She is tall, lizard-like in appearance with glittering scales permeated in sweat and wide eyes that look close to crying. 

“Who are you,” she yells, voice taut but understandably so. She hadn’t been in a cell, presumably to be taken to somewhere to be tortured. She had already suffered, if the fresh wounds on her body were anything to go by, and it was enough reason for her to be on her guard against these strangers. 

“It’s okay,” Shiro said, dispelling the energy from his palm, raising them up to show he was unarmed as he took a slow step towards her. She raised her knife, a shake of her head telling him to stop. He obliged, raising his hands a little further. “My name is Shiro, I am the Black Paladin of Voltron. Me and my team have come to rescue you and your friends. We heard of your capture when we attacked a fleet near _Orrin.”_

The woman doesn’t look assured, but she doesn’t move to attack. “And me?”   
It’s an odd question, but she must be terrified and confused. Shiro doesn’t blame her. “And you. We’re here to get all of you to safety.” At that, the frills upon her head splay slightly before smoothing, her whole body visibly relaxing.   
Allura takes her hand, prompting the sheathing of her knife that had been hidden in a gauntlet on her wrist. “Can you walk?” The alien, introduced as Orvis, holds many wounds but none that inhibit her ability to fight her way out. 

The same cannot be said for her teammates. 

They are strung up like meat, chains binding wrists and ankles outstretched, forcing their own weight to pull on their shoulders, making it painful just to simply wait for their torture.   
Not Lance, is only a brief thought. But before despair can take root, Shiro locks it away and focuses on there here and now. 

The aliens are imprisoned in separate cells; each with field generators blocking the team from their prize. They are different to the cell that Shiro had been confined in during the year of his own imprisonment at the hand of the Galra, but there’s no comfort to pull him from the sickness of his curling stomach. 

The shields are a snag in the plan, but directed by Pidge, Vuskyn finds his way to the second floor where he can allow remote access for the Green Paladin to work their magic and power down the doors. 

Allura and Orvis take watch from outside, with Lyla as their back-up, leaving Shiro and Qemba to approach the pirates. 

Two were of the same species; large, turtle like creatures with blue skin and large shells, littered with the damage of particle whips and brandings across their skin. Another alien hangs between them, but she isn’t like them; long limbs and a thin, weakened body covered in large gaping wounds and blood from unspeakable torture.   
The last is more responsive than the others, raising his head when Qemba approaches the shield, glaring hard, baring fangs. He wears a collar around his neck, with two chains that stretch outwards allowing the guards to lead him from the cell without having to get too close to the barbs on his back. There are three, and a stump where one looks to be growing, all individual wrapped in chains and splayed apart, restricting his movement the most out of all four. 

“We’re getting you out,” Qemba says, speaking with a tone like one would speak to a frightened creature, but no matter, the Spider-like alien refuses to back down. He clicks his mandibles and strains at the chains, his eyes blinking in succession, before suddenly, he stops, and focuses on Shiro, who comes to stand beside the Blade.   
“You’re not Galra,” he says, voice hoarse, weak from screaming as he endured torment of the like that haunted Shiro’s nightmares. 

“No, we’re not, but we are here to help you. We’re getting you out.”   
The words spark a fire in the alien, pulling on his chains again, wincing as the wounds that litter his chest, arms, back, burn under the movement. “Hold still, you’ll hurt yourself worse,” Qemba says, his voice holding enough authority that the spider takes heed. His body shifts, head slumping, a smile on his lips. “Thank god,” he breathes, the tension leaving him, as does his conscious, finally taking peace that this nightmare will all be over soon.   
“Shit, shit, we got to get him out, if not he’s not going to make it.” There’s blood upon all of them, and they’ve all endured terrible evil and adrenaline was keeping them alive, but if they lose that and they’re not being treated, then the number of survivors is sure to drop. 

“Vuskyn how close are you to hacking into the system?” the Blade shouts, but then Pidge is announcing the shields are about to drop, they figured out how to do it, but it will trigger the alarms. “I don’t care, Pidge, it’s the only way we’re going to get in,” Shiro orders, calling for Allura to come help him break the chains, for Vuskyn to help carry one of the unconscious aliens. 

There’s one tick of breathing space before the shields dispel.   
Instantly an alarm blared, the room thrown into darkness before security lights illuminated the room in a dark, unforgiving red. 

“What the hell happened?” Hunk is suddenly yelling. Lyla is already trying to shut the alarm down and send out a transmission warning of structure damage and escape the base, but the alarms have locked her out of the audio transmission system. Shiro can’t spare more time as he slices down over the chains that pin the smaller alien to the wall, catching her before she can fall. The drop sends a jolt through her body, the pain of pressure on open wounds to much and she begins to scream from the agony. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry but I have to,” Shiro yells, ignoring the churning in his gut. 

“Coran, do you have an eye on the nearest guards?”  
“Same tunnel, estimated two Dobosh, now wait, they’re already running, fifty-seven ticks, fifty-six—”  
“Pidge, where’s our escape route?”   
“First tunnel on your left, Shiro you’ve got enemies ahead, you’re going to have to fight.”  
“Got it.” 

He’s the last to leave, ordering the other four ahead first with their own quarry. One arm out of commission as he holds the Daratrine against his back. She’s fighting with her conscious, the whispering words repeated but they’re not making sense. “—hurt us… kill… danger—” and she’s unconscious again, her head rolling to rest between the crease of Shiro’s shoulder and head. 

“Where is he?” one alien asks, having been pulled from the sanctity of his mind as he realises that there are allies here to help them get out. He repeats those three confusing words, over and over, tears on his pale skin, running trails of silver down his cheeks until mixing with blood and the horrible mix of blood falls upon Qemba’s back. “Help him,” he gasps, when the Blade’s body jerks and he scrambles back from the sudden onslaught of lasers from ahead, where the soldiers have found them and open fired. 

“Pidge, the way forward is blocked, we need another way,” Shiro yells over the sound of battle in the confines of the tunnel. “No, I can’t,” the Green Paladin wailed. “Coran help them, I’ve got, _oh god_ there’s more here, _Lyla move!”_  
“Pidge? Pidge!” The Comms crackled with the unmistakable sound of gunfire and Shiro felt his blood run cold. “KATIE—!”  
“It’s alright Shiro, Lyla’s with her, she’ll keep her safe,” Vuskyn says, crouching low to lay the alien he had carried on the tunnel floor. He grabs the other by the shoulder, pulling her down behind the stalagmites. “I’m going to hold them off, try and push them back. You take your friend, got with the others. They’ll get you out.”   
“Vuskyn no,” Shiro begins, but the older won’t listen. “For the sake of them, and for the sake of the future, you _all_ have to get out,” Vuskyn says. There’s a nod to his comrade, another to Shiro and a fleeting farewell before he’s leaping over the stalagmites, running towards the horde. He darts into another tunnel before the enemy fire can target him. They all know his path was a dead-end. 

“Vuskyn _no—”_

“We have to move!”   
Lyla is yelling in his ear, Hunk and Keith are shouting, Qemba is shoving him, helping Orvis to carry her Draora brother and they’re running the other way while the Galra’s attention is divided. Allura brings up the rear and they’re running, not looking back, they’re running—

“Thank you,” comes a breathless whisper, barely heard.   
“Don’t thank us yet, we’re not out of the base,” Shiro replies, thinking nothing but _run,_ listening to Coran direct the group to the courtyard rather than the North wall. They’re not going to be able to get to their pod, they’re going to have to leave it. 

_“Keith, Keith c’mon,”_ Hunk is yelling, he and the Red Paladin having to run from the Med-bay, already coordinating with Regris for a pick-up at the South perimeter. Allura shouts a warning and Shiro just manages to shove Orvis and her friend out of the way before laser blasts fly past from the direction they’re running from. “Don’t look back,” he orders, feeling Qemba slow, his own mind wanting to return, but he can’t because Vuskyn won’t be there, he won’t allow himself to be captured—

Three dozen android soldiers are running towards them, raining as much gunfire as they possibly can in the hopes of hitting the infiltrators and their quarry. But corridors turn, and they have enough cover to reach the far end and the door that leads _out._

“Allura, the door,” but there’s no need, because Qemba, in all his anger and pent-up aggression just rams the metal door with his shoulder, the weight of his entire body behind the attack and forces their escape _open._

It’s madness outside, with gun fire and explosions as a Green Lion descends into the madness, it’s armoured body the shield the team need before their blown apart by enemy fire. Shiro help but let out a relieved laugh, not bothering to waste his breath on the orders for the group to climb aboard. Regris’s ship and the Castle join the fray, targeting anywhere but the courtyard, yet their presence alone forces the enemy troops to retreat back into the base, lest they catch the eyes of the rail guns and draw their fire. 

“We’re here for pick-up duty,” Lyla shouts down to them, Green lowering herself to bring her belly closer to the Earth. True to Qemba’s assurances, she had got Pidge out of the Tower and traversed the inner labyrinth back to Green with ease. She helps to haul them in, one after the other, the door to Green’s inner body not fully closed before Pidge orders her to abandon the planet. 

“So much for stealth,” Lyla smiles, trying to alleviate tension as she tends to the wounds of the Draora nearest to her, turning to look at the Paladins that have dropped to the floor, their quarry safe with them, but in need of a healing pod.   
Shiro can’t help but agree, but he doesn’t share her smile, staring at the corner of Green’s hull where an empty space waits for the Blade that gave his life for the sake of the mission. A sacrifice that Shiro hadn’t wanted, but if it hadn’t been willingly given, then they wouldn’t be here now, one step closer to their goal. 

One step closer to Lance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger! Aren't I such a mean fucker.  
> Also, depending on how quickly I finish writing Chapter 36 (yes I'm actually ahead of schedule) then you guys might have #35 on Sunday and #36 on Monday.  
> Either way, you'll get another chapter Monday, so keep an eye out. 
> 
> Much love xxx


	35. A Want For Vengance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rescue mission was successful, and the team are finally beginning to take steps to align themselves the Solnha. Hopefully they would know of Lance, and maybe when the pirates wake from their cryo-sleep, they could ask of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, just have to sing praises for CinnamonChild and Greyisles for helping me, not just Beta-ing, but helping keep me focused and organising all my wild ideas.   
> Can't thank you guys enough, and to everyone who reads this work I thank you too, for keeping me inspired and motivated and all that fabulous stuff. 
> 
> Anyway, onward ho!

**System:** Iitharra  
 **Location:** Space 

The four Cryo-chambers stand side by side one another, curving around the room, allowing Hunk to stand in the centre. He faces the four aliens, all suspended in cryo-sleep for the duration of their healing. He stands before the monitor, having nothing better to do than let his eyes skim over their vital signs. He tries not to look at how long they had already spent in sleep-stasis, and how much longer they must stay in until they are fully healed. 

The female Daratrine had her ribcage shattered. All of her bones dislocated and forcibly mended just so they could be dislocated again. Bone takes time to knit itself back together, but so do punctured lungs and shredded muscles. She will take the longest to heal.

The Draora pair are slightly less damaged; one taking damage to their eye and the other still suffering swelling around their broken fingers. But their true weakness lay in utter exhaustion and the few thousand shallow cuts that litter the skin of their body between armoured shell and bone growth that acted as natural defences. One Draora had the plates of one arm removed, but no matter what programme Coran typed into the cryogen’s function, he was unable to initiate the regrowth of the natural armour.

In the last chamber awaited a Vhoadan; a spider-like alien with four poisonous spines and a similarity to Humans and Alteans in its main body. The bulbous on it’s back was scarred with burns, and one barb had been removed, but was already growing back, and had been without the aid of the cryo-pod. The Altean’s medicinal aid simply hastened the alien’s recovery. 

Even Lyla and Pidge had been resting in their own pods. Both of them were fine; suffering only minor bumps and bruises when Lyla thought she’d copy Shiro’s previous idea that windows were great escape routes and had launched herself and the Paladin from the East Tower’s window. There was no real need for a cryo-pod, but Coran thought that it would be better to be safe. 

Lyla had departed earlier to the Marmora base, whereas Pidge was still sleeping off the aftereffects of the sleep-stasis. When they woke, they’d continue to search for the pirates, and maybe now have some luck with the help of the five that they rescued. Or four.   
Orvis wasn’t eager to help Voltron track down her people, even if it would get her home sooner.

Trust wasn’t gained at the drop of the hat; even after an unexplained rescue from a group who, during their last encounter, had been on the other side of the firing line. Orvis showed her lack-of-trust with her refusal to climb into a cryo-pod alongside her comrades, but it was understandable and Shiro hadn’t pushed further. He knew she was standing guard for her family.

After spending a week in the clutches of the Galra, facing the fear of torture every day, everyone knew, especially Shiro, that Orvis just needed time. She would help when her family woke and they would carry on their journey.

Still unsure of her surroundings, Orvis rarely left the med-bay. She requested her food be brought to her, for the peace and quiet of solitude. However, Coran and the others needed to remain on watch should any of the patients reject the treatment.

Afterall, the programming was newly woven, the Castle hasn’t had the pleasure of healing the Vhoadan, Daratrine, Draora or Arroyo races. Even if the healing was state of the art, there was still room for error, and if it could be prevented, then no one was going to stand by and let that happen.

This was why Hunk was here now, monitoring their vitals and counting down the minutes until they began to wake. The others had taken Lyla and Qemba home to _Filarel,_ bearing with them the unpleasant news of Vuskyn’s death. Even if he chose to sacrifice himself, the group was still responsible because they accepted his and the other Blade’s help in rescuing the pirates.

Shiro had been out of sorts for the last two days in the team’s journey back to the Marmora’s base. Even when the others approached him, Lyla offering to bear the burden of her superiors’ death, Shiro wouldn’t pass the blame. He failed to stop Vuskyn from sacrificing himself because he wasn’t able to think of another plan. He should’ve protested harder against the Blade’s decision anyway. 

As if the thought of his friends summoned them, the sounds of less than happy tones come bubbling from the corridor behind him. Hunk doesn’t turn to greet them; his mind acknowledging that Shiro joins his side and Allura on the other, but no more that allows him to give greeting, nor expect one in return.

Shiro isn’t up for small talk either, it seems, his question focused only on the aliens and the whereabouts of Orvis, who hadn’t stayed long in the infirmary after learning that not all of the Paladins were leaving for _Filarel._ If Hunk paid her more mind than he was able, he may have invited her to the kitchen and hoped to gain trust, or at least conversation. His duty is to care for the battered aliens who are still in danger, compared to her. She was patched up with bandages and a tiny vial of _Eyre,_ which was kept under lock and key since… well, _since._

“How did they take the news?” Coran asked, prior to arriving in the med bay, he was checking up on Pidge and Keith who are training.

They had all hoped that Shiro would find peace upon _Filarel._ However, he found even more blame from the seeing his shoulders slumped and his cold dead eyes. Allura had accompanied the three, in hopes of alleviating any blame to Voltron for the loss of a Blade, to keep the alliance strong and not lose trust in one another. But apparently such fears were irrelevant.

“They acted as if it was nothing. When we reached the base, I know they knew immediately, when they saw that Vuskyn wasn’t there, but they didn’t mention him. At all.” Shiro dry-washes his face with his hand, his eyes sunken and tired from more than just their continuous battles with the Galra. “I didn’t even tell Kolivan,” he says, which doesn’t sound right, but before Hunk can ask what the Black Paladin means, he continues. “Qemba told me not to make a fuss of it. Lyla too. They said taking the blame for Vuskyn’s death dishonours his decision of a sacrifice. I think they were glad I didn’t even try to stop him, like they’re all enthralled but this idea that dying for the sake of the mission, or dying to not let the mission fail…”

“It’s their _‘is all and end all’_ solution. I didn’t get it either,” Hunk admits, having heard too many vows of sacrifice when he waited on the sidelines during the attack on the fleet. “They care more for securing victory of their mission than their own lives.”

“Dangerous and foolhardy,” Allura agrees, bitterness in her tone that ages her well. “They waste their lives on the small victories, but are left only crippling themselves for the sake of the next. Vuskyn didn’t have to die. And Kolivan needs to understand that he is wrong.” She sighs, a hand in her hair to pull it up into a loose bun, too tired to look presentable when there was no need for it. 

“But that is a discussion for another time. First—”

“When will they be waking?”

The four of them turn, coming face to face with Orvis herself, stood in the doorway, but for how long, no one knew. She wasn’t looking at them, but at her family. 

Coran casts an eye back to the console beside them, before revealing that the younger Draora, revealed as Kenmare, would be waking soon because he had the fewest lethal injuries. The small cuts littering his body had long been healed, and his eye, although would never be like before, would still enable him sight. The full understanding could only be known when Kenmare finally woke up.

“Define soon,” Orvis says, her words taut, tail flicking back and forth, as if unable to remain still. 

“Within the varga,” Coran chirps, delighted to give her the news. 

Yet for Orvis, the news that her brother would be waking soon did not come as joy. Her body stiffened, her eyes widening as she glanced to the Draora in question, and onto the others one by one, her maw twitching involuntarily as she fought to hide her teeth.

She didn’t look pleased at all. She looked angry. Afraid.

Without another word, or a look to the team gathered, the Arroyo dismisses herself from the Bridge. She absconds from the room before the cryo-pod could start it’s waking process, leaving the four of them to cast uncertain looks to one another, all with questions, and none with definite answers. 

“What was that about?” Allura wants to know, but without anyone possessing the ability to read the other’s mind, they are just as lost as the Princess, with only guesses to the reason why she has run. 

“I think it has something to do with her injuries,” Shiro says, looking to the doorway. “What do you mean?”

But before Shiro could elaborate on his speculation to the reason why Orvis had fled, the high-pitched trill of the cryogen chamber rung out in the quiet room. Kenmare’s sleep-stasis had reached its completion, and began the protocol of waking him up.

The chill leaves his body, the glass dissolving into mist as Kenmare is forced to breathe, like a newborn breathing air for the first time. They all know the effects, and have disturbingly got used to the sensation of drowning on oxygen. They all remember their first time, and watching Kenmare heave on the air around him, it brings back unpleasant memories.

“Steady now,” Shiro soothes, catching the alien before he falls; Coran and Hunk are there beside him to support the alien. Kenmare is a head larger than all of them, and his hulking body is too much for one Human to hold by himself.

Kenmare is a warrior. He’s a fighter, and he won’t fall. Keeping his legs braced underneath him as the dizziness fades, when breathing stops hurting, and the pressure in his head fades with every new breath. He struggles with the urge to vomit.

“That’s it, slowly.”

He’s standing now, hunched, but standing. Allura fetches a blanket, knowing the cold is not something that he would want as a companion for much longer. They help lower him to the floor before he can fall, and Coran rushes off to bring the Draora a much-needed warm drink.

The Princess heads to check on Pidge, and let Keith know that one of the aliens is out of his cryogenic chamber.

“Where—” Kenmare asks, but then he’s coughing, and words are not for him to speak. 

“You are aboard the Castle of Lions,” Shiro begins, taking it upon his shoulders to explain to the young alien that he was safe now, far from the Galra. “My team and I rescued you from Genwar. You’re all safe now.” He gestures to the other cryo-chambers, Kenmare’s eyes following, tearing at the sight of his family.

Hurt, but healing.

“Thank you,” spills from his lips. He strongly grips Shiro and Hunk’s arms, squeezing them, but not as so it is painful. Kenmare looks them in the eye, his thanks fervent even without words.

_“Thank you.”_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Thank you again,” Kenmare says, accepting the blanket and sits on the floor. He is still tired, his energy drained from the speedy recovery. Sleep would follow; although a bed had already been prepared for him, he held little desire to leave the other three.

Unlike Orvis, Kenmare was more trusting of the team, but it was for the sake of his own peace of mind that he chose to sit between his brother’s pod and the healing Daratrine. Sad eyes flicker around the room, perhaps searching for others that had been with him, but had not survived the infiltration.

Hunk glanced to Shiro, knowing the man would think himself for being too late to save the others, blaming himself like they all blamed themselves for being slow, for being too weak to save everyone, too weak to protect everyone—

“You needn’t thank us. Instead, we should be thanking you. It was you and your people that freed the Hycis from _Genwar.”_ Kenmare nods, but there is no appreciating smile, no thanks in return.

Just the same dead, moonblind gaze turned to his own, empty cryo-pod that should hold another. Another who was not saved.

Kenmare knows the truth, even before he asks. But he still asks, a glimmer of hope that his comrade, like Orvis, was not subjected to torture, or to the fear of death like those still healing.

He is still meek, as expected of any that have been held prisoner, their wills slowly broken from the moment the chains bound his wrists. He still flinches away from sudden movement, but it was a strange strength that he once again meets the Paladin’s eyes. 

“Was there— I mean, when you came for us, to _Genwar._ Was there…”

But the boy’s strength wavers, his voice cracking and he cannot continue. It is fear that holds him back, whereas hope pushes him forward. But greater is the fear that the words Shiro and Hunk will speak will confirm that he has lost them.

“There was another. He was with us when we fought the Galra, when… I didn’t see him fall. Leonel was with him, he’s here but he…”

“We found no others.” Shiro drops his head, unable to meet Kenmare’s milky-white eyes that tear with the news. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Neither yours.”

Kenmare looks up at that, meeting Hunk’s gaze. He wears a soft smile, though does not feel it, but the look in his eye holds strength, willing Kenmare to believe him, and not blame himself.

“Yes,” the Draora says. Soft. Sad. There is no comfort taken, but he doesn’t refuse the warm sweet-bean drink that Coran offers, downing it in one go. He doesn’t tell Kenmare he had added a sleeping draught, knowing all the boy needs now is dreamless-sleep until the rest of his family wakes.

Kenmare nods again, but does not bring the cup to his lips. Instead, he loses his mind to the moment when everything fell apart.

“Everything collapsed around us. We thought we had more time.” He whispers softly, dropping his own gaze to stare at his pitiful reflection in the cup of sweet-bean. “He was there, right in front of me. Rayon told me to grab him, he had Uilt’xen and Leonel was hurt from fighting with her. Eldar told us…” his breath hitched on the name, a sob shattering his resolve as the first of many tears began to fall. “He was _right there_ and I couldn’t do… _I couldn’t do anything.”_

His head droops. His body follows. Hunk steps in quickly to take the cup from him as he curled arms around himself, looking impossibly meek and fragile. He cried, and cried and wept and sobbed, not caring for what they saw him as.

Weak? Pathetic? It mattered not.

All that mattered…

_“Valion… We lost Valion,”_ he whispered to himself. Tears stream from his eyes, bruising fists pressed to his temple to draw out any form of pain for self-inflicted punishment. Hunk hates to see anyone hurting, his own pain rising in his throat, yet he knows that nothing he says will ease Kenmare’s agony. The heartbreak he feels must be unbearable, but the boy has no choice but to bear it, and bear it alone until his family wakes.

Yes, it is true that Orvis is awake, but she has made it clear that she is afraid of their judgement for now. Selfish perhaps, when Kenmare needs a familiar face and a shoulder to cry on, but Hunk can’t blame her. Not if he believes the same as Shiro; that her too few wounds mean that she was the first to break, and shared with the Galra to save herself from more pain.

“We were meant to protect him. We promised Eldar that we would keep him safe, we _promised._ And we _failed.”_ The tears continue to run until he cannot cry anymore. Kenmare is already exhausted from his ordeal, no longer able to breathe.

The Alien, taken by the despair of truth, becomes nothing but a shell of his former strength: legs, weak; body, limp; as he is slumped against Uilt’xen’s chamber.

“It’s shock,” Coran says simply, waiting for the conscious to slip, or latch. It slips, and the Draora, wired from stress, fear and the unknowing, slipped into sweet oblivion as he went under. “Come on. Help me get him up. He may be comfortable with the floor to sleep on, but I’m not so uncaring. He’ll be right next to the med-bay, and I’ll stay with him when he wakes.”

Together the three of them were able to position Kenmare on a floating stretcher, one that hovered just a little off the ground to transfer Kenmare from the infirmary to a dorm room that was designed for the sake of longer-term healing. It is less used, due to the Castle’s healing capabilities. 

Shiro stayed to supervise, perhaps longer than anyone would deem necessary. He was unable to pull away from the person he had saved. It wasn’t unusual for the team to see Shiro spending time with rescued victims. With every new mission, saving of countless aliens, the man was forced to remember his own time as captive and Champion of the Galra. 

It wasn’t hard for him to empathise with them, even if the memories were something he wished he’d never witness again, nor the moments he spent bound to days of “ _fight or die…”_

Well. He was glad to be free. And if someone else needed saving, Shiro would give to the best of his ability to make sure he got them out too.

_“It’s what makes you, you,”_ Allura had told him when he had broken, once, searching for Lance in the middle of the night. But Lance wasn’t here to support him, and it was an Altean Princess who found him. She had told Shiro, that even though what he went through was traumatic and life-altering, it also meant that he probably wouldn’t be the man he was today.

He wouldn’t be the leader of Voltron.

He wouldn’t have come to the Castle, he wouldn’t have learnt of the war with the Galra, nor known the importance of standing against them until it was too late. The Paladin’s lives, and the lives of all the Humans on Earth had changed. All because Zarkon chose, not to kill Shiro, but to fight for his entertainment. It was one of his biggest mistakes.

“Shiro? Do you have a moment?” a voice asked somewhere to Shiro’s right, bringing the leader back to the here and now. It was Hunk, who, like himself, had not left immediately, and hovered in the doorway. He was still tired, still pale, the honey-warm colours of his eyes dulled by the fog of a growing storm within his mind.

Shiro gave the boy a soft smile. “Come on, we’ll speak as we eat. You’ve been with the other since Allura and I left for _Filarel,_ and I know you haven’t eaten anything since taking over from Coran’s watch this morning.” Hunk just bowed his head, knowing not to dispute the truth, even if he didn’t feel like eating. But Shiro said food, and he knows that before it has helped to calm him. But this time… 

_“It wasn’t Lance.”_

They’re in the corridor, alone, together but alone. Shiro can hear the weight of those three words, and although he already knew, he hates having to hear it. Kenmare had the strength to ask of Valion, and although it hurt to know for certain, he had asked anyway.

Shiro wasn’t that strong. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask.

“I’m sorry Hunk. I wanted it to be Lance as well.” They all did.

He forces a smile, a hand on Hunk’s shoulder to continue guiding them to the dining hall. But Hunk stands firm, the words he’s given not the one he wants Shiro to hear. The words he _needs_ Shiro to hear.

They had all hoped, all considered the possibility that there was more than just the reason of healing a prisoner for the sake of torture. Especially after seeing the others so broken, so torn in their minds that, maybe it was Lance. Maybe they were keeping him alive for the sake of giving him to Zarkon like a shiny new Christmas present.

But when Hunk and Keith fell silent on their ends of the Comms, when they didn’t cry out in jubilance that Lance was found, Lance was safe…  
Since returning to the Castle, fleeing from the system, they had all felt the same, heavy, rain-soaked weight of disappointment. They bore it well, hiding their chagrin with solemn smiles that didn’t reach their eyes. Shiro hid the fact that he, just like Keith, just like Hunk, _just like all of them,_ had hoped beyond reasonable sanity that it was their fellow Pilot, just a touch from their reach…

Hunk wasn’t in the mood for masks. Didn’t have the energy. Didn’t have the mind to heal what was hurt when everyone was hurting.  
He stares at the floor, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to think of the words he wanted to say, free of accusable points and harsh opinion. 

“Keith and I— When we reached the Med-bay…” He spoke slowly, words thought out with great care.

Shiro said nothing, giving the boy his patience. He didn’t want to hear of their defeat, he knew the step they’d taken was one in the wrong direction. But Hunk wanted— No, _needed_ Shiro to hear him out.

So Shiro was patient. He waits.

And Hunk told him. He told Shiro of Keith’s need to charge the soldiers down, the vagueness that clouded him, even before they had reached their goal, like his body fought but his mind was not there. Hunk told him of the brutality in which Keith took down the robot guards, the anger that he wore as armour when he fought, tearing through the ranks like a demon that knew not fear; knew nothing but hate and rage and _hurt._

“And when we finally got inside, _oh god Shiro.”_

Hunk hadn’t been able to contain his hopes when the door opened for them. The soldiers that swarmed out were nothing but dirt to be trodden upon, and Keith took them out quickly with the greatest of ease. His mind on one thing and one thing only.

Hunk and Keith rushed in with smiles on their faces, dropping their guard as they ran to the side of the singular cryogen chamber that lay in the middle of the room, the faint purple and silver cylinder shining like a beacon of hope, drawing them nearer, both of their hearts in their throats as they leaned over, smiling down up the Blue Paladin inside…

It wasn’t Lance.

It was a Galra soldier. The Base Commander, by the look of its uniform. The alien had been badly injured, presumably in the fight between the pirates and now he lay here, peaceful-like healing slowly from the pod’s healing abilities, _but all of that didn’t matter._

It.

Was.

Not.

_Lance._

“Keith…”

Keith didn’t look to him, his face hidden under his fringe, his body tense, hands curling around the handles of his blades. He said nothing. He did nothing. He just stared at the face that wasn’t the face he wanted to see, _feeling—_

Anger. Red-hot and burning, like poison in his blood, heat on his cheeks, ice in his veins that burnt him to his very core. The pulse of his heart hurt him, the oxygen in his lungs _hurt him,_ but not as much as the shattering of everything inside him, seeing purple where there should’ve been Blue, seeing enemy where there should’ve been friend, _seeing Galra where there should’ve been Lance—_

Hunk turns from him, willing his own tears to stop falling. He hadn’t wanted to hope, but hope was something he didn’t have control of, falling for the prey of wishing for Lance and suffering from the disappointment because—

“We can’t waste any more time here. We weren’t subtle in the path we took and soldiers will be with us soon. We have to go.” Hunk didn’t want to stay there any longer than he needed to. It was enemy territory, his gut churning with fear, making him want to puke. He didn’t like it and he wanted it gone. He wanted to be gone from here too, back to the Castle, away from this hellish nightmare. He wants away from this base, away from the hatred curling in his core like the shifting of sand beneath his feet. Since Lance left him, his world is bone dry and crumbling, but chasing the oasis in the desert shifts the dunes and hides his footsteps until even he cannot return to the moment.  
When Lance was with them all. When they were happy. When they were fighting together, perhaps not winning the war, but at least they were fighting together and Hunk knew them all to be safe, all to be alive—

All this effort. _For what?_

For pain, for hate? As If he wasn’t tired enough already.

Too much and too soon. His mind turns on him, blame is his companion and Hunk is lost in the sandstorm of regret, blinding him from the thought that, _if not here, then still safe with the Pirates._

He can’t think logically now, not with everything inside him, chipping away at his walls, turning them to dust that blows away in the wind until there is nothing.

Now he’s just empty.

Empty as he was the day Lance left them. Empty as the pod in which his best friend should’ve been, should’ve woken from and _should’ve stayed with them in the Castle. But should have’s and would haves_ are long since passed. Now is not the time for mourning opportunities missed, not in the heart of the beast that will rise up and devour them too.

“Keith, we’re going,” Hunk said, turning back to the Red who remained in front of the cryogen chamber, frozen. He bore tears too, pain and hate and everything dark that churned in Hunk, swirling and slithering under the boy’s skin, breeding only more hatred and pain. 

_“It’s not him.”_

No, it’s not him. It was never him in the first place.

They were foolish to have hoped.

“It’s not him Hunk.”

“I know it’s not him. It just means that he’s somewhere else, still fighting, still being a thorn in the Galra’s backside.” God, he hoped it to be true.  
“He’s still out there Keith and that means we have to go find him. Be thankful that he’s not in the pod, because then that means he would’ve suffered at the hands of the Galra as their prisoner.”

“I’d rather have him and have him injured, than not having him at all.”

Hunk did too. But that wasn’t happening with just wishful thinking.

Neither did it change their current predicament.

_“Keith, we’re leaving.”_

Hunk left the room first, scanning both ends of the corridor for the enemy troops, conferring with Pidge in his ear and the cross-section on the HUD of his helmet display. Allura’s light, and the lights of the others with her beeped from near the confinement cells, Lyla’s own words echoing in the background of Pidge’s line, telling the team how to a voice more obstacles.

Maybe there was enough time for Keith and himself to rendezvous with them, maybe lend them a hand—

Noise echoed in the quiet of the corridor: the sound of smashing glass and the hiss of pressure released. Hunk turned back to the medical room, fearing that the Galra Alien had woken suddenly from his sleep-stasis, and now Keith was his opponent. “Keith—!”

Suddenly the door slammed shut, the click in place before Hunk could order it open again with a push of his hand on the sensor. The thing just vibrated at him, a definite “no” under the unmistakable scream that echoed from within. “Keith!”

Hunk pounded the door with his fists, all that heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, light-head-cold-sweat fear deafening him as imagination took over and all he could see was the hand that clutched his friend’s neck, the Galran squeezing with all its might until no breath of being lingered behind. “KEITH!”

But it wasn’t Keith who screamed.

It was the Galra, who Keith had woken from sleep-stasis through sheer force of will, his blade driven through glass and flesh, until it sunk deep into bone. He straddles the remnants of the cryo-chamber, a hand on the Galra’s chest to keep him up, to keep them eyes level so the scum knows who hurts him. _And why._

“Where is he?” the boy yelled over the sounds of the Galra’s pain-stricken screams, not wanting screams, wanting words, wanting _answers._

He’d milk the bastard for pain, for all he was worth, but that wasn’t much. Even less if he didn’t know where Lance was. But Keith was going to get his answers, be it from this pathetic fuck or the next that he found to stick with his blade, again and again until he bled out or until he told Keith what he wanted to know. _Whatever came first._

“Keith! Keith!”

The boy’s sanity remains on the other side of the door, banging with his fists, begging for him to stop. But Keith doesn’t want to hear Hunk begging he wants to hear the Galra squealing, wants to hear the blood gurgle in his throat when he finally dismissed him from this world with nothing more than a curse. He’d be the warning to anyone else who wanted to stand in his way, to Lance, to home, to victory, to _whatever._

“Where is he?”

The gasps that punctured the screams were once again lost as Keith twisted the hilt of his blade, the wound in the Galra’s shoulder widening, carving, gushing with thick, oozing sludge that would’ve once made the boy feel sick. But in the days, months, _years_ of leaving Earth, leaving normalcy and being devoured by war, Keith no longer feels the curl of his stomach at the sight of blood, the smell of burning flesh, the rancid stench of dead bodies that remain after the Galra raze planets to nothing but space rocks.

To Keith, blood is as normal as water, and he’ll drain the sea of it means uncovering the truth.

_“Tell me!”_

But screams were the Galra’s song to sing; the only song who knew to sing as the Red Paladin brought back his blade and plunged deep again. He didn’t target the alien’s heart, his stomach of lungs, or anything that would grant him release from this torture.

Deep cuts do nothing. Sure, they hurt, they make his scream, but that’s all they do, dragging him closer and closer to death as blood pours in rivers.

So, Keith turns to lighter cuts. Flicks of his wrist, the scratch of his nails that bring begging, the handle of the blade his cudgel as he beats the Galra black and blue.

“Where is he?” The teen hisses his question between one gift of pain and the next. “Where is he?”

_Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Whereishewhereishewhereis—_

“Keith! Keith!”

The sword was abandoned for breaking bones. The Galra couldn’t fight back; he is light-headed from blood loss, his body already battered, bruised, trapped in the confines of the broken chamber. Keith’s window was one he made himself, the shattered fragments of glass littering the Galra’s fur, finding cuts and burying themselves deep in blood rivers and salt-water tears.

_Where is he?_

Red. Black. Purple. _Blue._

There was blood on his fists, blood on his chest, on his face.

_Where is he?_

One finger at a time. No need to hold himself back, no need to hurry along this precious time together, with his sanity guarding the door and the answers a breath away.

_Where is he?_

Two fingers, three fingers….

_Where is he?_

Four… five…

_Where is he?_

The other hand…

_Where is he?_

Where is he? where is he, WHERE IS HE! 

All too soon, silence returned. Godforsaken silence and the echoing of Keith’s ragged breaths as he straddled the cryo-chamber, staring down at the glassy-eyed corpse that had breathed his last and wouldn’t breathe again.

_No, he wouldn’t breathe again._ Keith slit his throat to make sure.

But then death was dealt and no more could be taken. He stormed out of the room, with the intent of finding another; his face a mask of thunder, no longer bothering to hide the rage that boils inside him. The pain he had shared with the Galra had done nothing to alleviate his own.

Keith knew many kinds of pain. Fighting in an intergalactic space-war came with a price, after all.

He suffered broken ribs, wrists, sprains, and burns. He’d been thrown in the healing pods for concussions and broken noses, stab wounds, and bullet holes. Everything that comes with being a soldier, fighting in a war that was more than just one boy.

Keith knew the difference between stabbing a toe against a gladiator and breaking it while trying to kick an armoured door in. He knew how painful a fall was; both from the sharp-jab of an opponent and being hurled out a window. He knew how it felt to have a bullet shred his muscles and to have a sword slice him open.

The boy carried scars that couldn’t be healed by the cryo-pods. He knew levels of pain from a dull headache to gut wrenching agony.  
But no pain he ever felt could compare to the heartbreak of coming up short; finding answers locked behind Galra lips, only to lose himself and murder the fucker before he can spill. His mind couldn’t handle the convulsing red burn that tore through him; when he realised that Lance wasn’t here and probably was never there. He couldn’t bear the anger that rose up inside him, the bonds it shattered until it engulfed the boys mind, letting him rest as the beast took over. Slash. Hack. _Destroy._

“Keith…!”

Someone calls to him, from beyond the veil of anger. But it isn’t Galra. It isn’t enemy. It isn’t someone who hides Lance from him, so Keith bears the voice no mind and forges ahead. He follows the beast’s will to drive of his blade into living breathing bodies until they are no more. Galra blood stains his sword.

Lance’s blood stains his conscious.

Keith always thought he understood pain.

He thought swords brought the sharpest pain, that agony was poison’s kiss. He thought the worst he’d ever feel was the death of his father, the disappearance of Shiro, the barring from Earth until the War was one.

Then he lost Lance.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Hunk hadn’t said it. Not out loud, but Shiro knew. With the lost, hurt look in the boy’s eyes, the silence that hangs heavy, blood-soaked between them, it’s not hard to paint the picture inside his mind. But the illustrations are the Galra’s familiarity, not Keith’s. But then, Keith is Galra too. Not unlike the monsters in ways of anger, the sure-minded, singular-focus drive that pushed him to excel, that pushed him to chase after Shiro when he left. The drive that pushes Keith after Lance still, even now.

But it is the same drive that is pushing Keith to savagery and torture for the sake of answers.

It is the push that drives a divide in Keith; the Red Paladin of Voltron and the violent, quick-tempered soldier that would lay waste to any enemy before they dared hurt his loved ones.

Hunk hadn’t come for the sake of warning Shiro, or maybe he did, on some level. But it was more than that.  
It was for Hunk himself, and Keith too, who was once again, breaking. Lance was the reason, this time and the last, leaving Keith a fracture shell of glass, barely held together as it was. And now, killing, murdering, _torturing_ that Galra. There weren’t many alive that deserved such treatment, but Keith certainly wasn’t one to make that decision, let along _act upon it._

Torture worked two ways after all. There was only so much you could break someone before you began to break yourself.

“Where is he now?”

“Training, I think. Allura said she’d go find him, but she was also checking on Pidge. If she’s still not here, that means Pidge has woken, and Allura is filling them both in on Kenmare’s waking.”

Shiro gave a sharp nod, turning abruptly from the direction his mind had wandered. He would ¬ _never_ consider Keith a threat to the team. His patience, his anger, maybe, but never himself. It hurt him to think—

“Are you sure?” Because he needs to be sure. Not about Keith now, but Keith then. Keith an all his emotions, uncontrollable, volatile, destructive—

“I’m sure.”

Shiro wants to ask questions, yet he doesn’t. He wants details but he’d rather remain in blissful ignorance. Pretend that Keith’s not breaking and the team isn’t suffering.

The hope of finding Lance and having it snatched away had affected all of them, not just Keith, but it’s to the boy that he mentored that he worries the most, knowing that they have all come to terms with Lance’s death long ago. The pain of losing him isn’t easy to swallow, but it’s got easier over time.

Dredging up all the hope of him being alive just has them choking on their hope all over again.

_It has to stop._

“Hunk, what did—” But before more words can be spoken, heavy footfalls call their eyes to the far end of the corridor. The source of many worries walks towards them, suited in light armour for training that has been completed for the day. Yet with all the hours he has been working out his energy on broken gladiator parts, Keith doesn’t look tired at all. His bayard remains in the form of his sword, idle in his left hand. He is calm. Calm for someone who has killed out of anger.

Shiro almost expected to see the blade dripping blood, but such a thought is foolish. _And painful._

“How long until one wakes up?” the Red Paladin asks, coming to stop before the Yellow and Black. There is a noticeable distance between them, yet no one makes to close the gap. 

“Allura went to find you earlier. Didn’t she tell you?” Hunk prompts, his voice unnaturally tight, the pressure of normalcy forced. If Keith noticed, he didn’t care to mention anything. 

“I haven’t seen her.”

Hunk nods, smiles, then drops it. “Ah, yes, she was coming to find you. And Pidge,” he adds, words rushed. His entire body beginning to fidget like he itches under the tension of Keith’s drawl expression.

He won’t hurt them, he’ll never hurt them, but knowing what he’s capable of—

“Kenmare is awake. Or _was,_ I should say,” Shiro amends before Keith can think of storming in and interrogating another for the sake of answers. There is a glance to Hunk, whose fidgeting subsides.

“Coran gave him a sleeping-draught. He’ll wake when the others do. Then they will all eat, rest and recover their strength before we will suggest coming together with the rest of their forces for the sake of an alliance.” 

“And what of Lance?”

“We will ask of him too. If your thoughts are right Keith, then he’ll be with the pirates.”

Keith’s eyes flash with an unnameable light. “If my thoughts had been right, then he would’ve been in the thick of it with everyone else. He’s not the type to hang back and let others risk his life if he can do it himself.” He says, his quiet tone unnerving in light of the extent of his anger. _He won’t hurt them, he’ll never hurt them, but knowing what he’s capable of—_

“But he wasn’t this time,” Hunk says, stepping closer to Keith, a hand on his shoulder to pull him back. “Which doesn’t mean to say that he wasn’t on the frontlines somewhere else, or maybe in one of the ships that escaped. Lance is a good shot Keith, it’s why he was our sharpshooter. Now, he’s probably sharpshooting from the safety of their main ship.” The words, so simple, struck a chord with the older. He nods his head, then drops his gaze, the tension of his body washing away as quickly as it had come.

“I wanted him there,” he says. “We all did.”

There is little more to do than wait, but it shan’t be done in the corridor. If Hunk has his way, he would be already leading Keith away from the medical bay and to the kitchen, where he and Shiro were heading to in the first place. “Come on, I’ll cook something. I know I haven’t eaten anything since the mission and Shiro has already asked for those spicy kebabs that turn your tongue purple. What do you fancy?”

And quietly, Keith answers with a soft voice, “Garlic knots.”

Shiro regards the pair of them with a smile. The way Keith leans against Hunk, and Hunk with his arm around the boy’s shoulder as he leads him away; he is putting extra effort in to apologise for his attitude, even if it wasn’t directed at the boy himself.

“Worrying, isn’t it.” Coran approaches from behind, dusting his hands on a scrap of cloth. The two men share knowing looks; the doctor’s subtle scowl revealing that, _yes,_ he too had heard Hunk’s revelation. He knew that now wasn’t the time for confrontation. They can only watch and wait, no matter how tedious it could be. Healing takes time and that’s something they can allow if it will bring them to Lance.

Shiro sets himself about his rounds, checking on Pidge, who is still sleeping. Colour has returned to their face from where they cold of the healing pods stole it, and the gentle snores are comical and calming. Shiro closes the door softly to disturb them, or the mice that are curled up on their chest.

Orvis has taken the place of Keith in the training hall, sparring with a Gladiator, using a bo staff to defend herself. Allura stands as her watch so that she doesn’t injure herself against the automations.

Where normally Shiro would step in and call the girl to sleep, he knows she is fighting with the demons she has brought from _Genwar._ Shiro knows all too well, through the eyes of his own capture, that another prisoner in the same predicament with less abuse upon their bodies can mean only one thing: _they talked._

But to what Orvis admitted can’t be addressed without her first making amends with her team. And she can’t make amends with her team when she herself is still coming to terms with her own betrayal.

The inability to trust Voltron is an abrupt refusal to sleep, eat, and rest. She won’t lower her guard until her family are awake and safe back home. Until then, Shiro will leave her to her own devices, and trust in Allura to keep an eye on her.

The man’s feet lead him past the training hall, and the kitchen. Hunk is still in there, Keith not so, having already retired to bed. Shiro decides to follow suit, feeling weariness prickle behind his eyes. But an easy retreat wasn’t in Shiro’s nature, taking it upon himself to take the detour by Keith’s room and confirm that his easy compliance is what he says it is. But Keith’s room is empty.

Concern weighs heavy inside Shiro’s chest; his mind searching quickly in the calm of dawning night. Black was dozing lightly, but not enough that the Lion doesn’t feel the Soldier’s spike of worry, or that he replies instead with warmth, registering his fear and affirming that, yes, Red is still in her chamber. The Lion rumbled lowly, rays of warmth filling Shiro to calm him before he can feel the dread clawing at his throat.

_[Red says he is sleeping. In the child’s room.]_

_Not his own,_ Shiro wanted to reply, but he already knew the answer, before he’d taken a single step. He simply turns his head, from Keith’s door to the one that stands opposite. To the one which he had not entered since the day Lance left.

_His_ room.

Shiro didn’t need to enter. It wasn’t his place to. Instead he turns to his own chambers, staring longingly at his bed that should hold another. He can almost hear Adam’s voice, calling him to bed pulling back the covers for him.

Shiro shook himself of the memory, stripping himself down to his boxers, trying to ignore the fullness of his arm that didn’t belong in his moment between him and Adam. If his lover was here, he’d slide in beside him, pull him back into his embrace, inhale the scent that was intrinsically Adam and just… _relax._

“I’m worried,” Shiro whispered into imaginary Adam’s nape. His mind takes him into the place he had found comforting many a time, back on Earth when he could still hold Adam close. Now, in these trying times, he needed Adam close.

But Adam was far away.

_“They’re all worried. And they’re all tired. But one step at a time, love,”_ he says. The imagination overlaps with the memory of him turning in his arms, so they are snug in the quiet space of Shiro’s room, their legs tangled together. Shiro mumbles in agreement, halfway to sleep when Adam kisses his cheek, wishing him a dreamless sleep. He certainly needed it.

They _all_ needed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Orvis. Her death comes next chapter, in Chapter #36.


	36. A Want For Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aliens begin to wake, but everything is not as simple as it first appeared.

**System:** Iitharra  
**Location:** Space

The silence stretched thin in the med-bay. They had all been here too much lately, for one another as well as for those that were still recovering from the latest encounter with the Galra.  
Too many times were the cryogenic chambers occupied, if not for healing, then just to torture the Paladins with their last memory of Lance. 

The Paladins had all taken their own time to stand in front of Lance’s healing pod, apologising to him for their mistakes, as if the memory could grant them the retribution that they all sought for their mistakes and lack of action. The healing pod was a gravestone for them; a marker to which they could tie their regrets and sorrows. To lessen their daily burden. The only one who hadn’t was Keith.  
Even now as he stood in the centre of the room, no such thought came to his mind. It wouldn’t be to a gravestone he’d apologise, but to the boy himself, when he finally found him.

The boy stands now, caught in the moment of confusion. He knows that Lance is waiting for him, and there, awake, ready to answer all of Keith’s questions is that blasted alien that knows if Lance is with his rogue group of pirates or not. 

But Keith’s not asking questions.  
It doesn’t matter that frustration tightens his throat, impatience worn like a cloak, dragging nails over his skin as he stands and waits. Arms folded, lips closed. 

Rayon is similar to his brothers in many ways, taller by an inch so but not much more. It is his attitude that makes note of his age, or at least the role of older twin because there can’t be many more than a few years between them.  
He appears taller than he had when frozen in stasis, stood tall and proud with his head high. Yet not a pruning peacock is he, but a wolf that toes the line of territory to defend his pack mates. Kenmare, cub-like in comparison, shows no such hostility, but he too shows signs that the replenishing technology of ancient Altean medicine has worked its magic deep into his bones. The lingering tiredness of hastened healing as pulled him to sit cross legged on the floor, worry sets his fingers fidgeting but he is happy to share his immediate space with Hunk. The big guy was sat next to the Alien, trying to fill the silence with reassurances about the effects of the cryo-pods, that Uilt’xen and Leonel will be better one the healing is complete, perhaps rest and food, and maybe a bath to boot. 

The two are already looking far better. The cuts that littered the Daratrine’s body have all closed up and colour has returned to her once pale skin. 

Even Rayon, looks well rested, although he’s refused sleep, food and any other invitation to would expect him to leave his family unguarded.  
No one has told him, or Kenmare for that matter, that Orvis is aboard. But watching Rayon’s attitude now, the team can presume that their reunion will be less than welcoming. For now, Orvis remains in the Lion Hangar under the watch of Pidge, who wasn’t in the mood for tearful reunions. Not until it was a reunion with the Blue Paladin.  
Keith understood. He felt the same. 

As well as irritation. Because there are now _two_ aliens awake, so that means one of them should be ready to answer some questions.  
But not yet, as the rest declared, warning Keith not to overwhelm them. Shiro was adamant with the gentle approach; his own torture the experience that says familiar faces are the most important, and even though Kenmare is willing to trust Voltron, the others may not be as accepting. 

Rayon certainly acts as such, mirroring Keith in the way that he stands between Uilt’xen and the gathered team, his arms folded, his glare turned upon each when they dare meet his eyes. Keith has stared him down plenty, his gaze only pulled from the scarred, shelled alien to that of the cryo-pod that sings out the sounds of it’s completed programming.  
Coran is happy to inform the Draora twins that Leonel’s barb is completely healed, and the burns on his bulb are only skin-deep: scarring that won’t heal without another session in the healing-pod with the additional information of skin-graphed cells. Rayon makes it explicitly clear that Leonel will not be kept prisoner in the tank any longer than he needs to. He implies they’re still holding the pirate’s hostage.  
It riles Keith up, but before he can think to draw his bayard and declare war against the rogues, Shiro curbs his tongue. But the reaction was what the older had expected, if Rayon’s sneer was to go by. Nonetheless, he asks for Shiro’s apology, prompted by his younger twin’s complaints about not riling up possible allies. 

Yes, Shiro and Allura had already spent their time talking to the pair about their alternate plan that would have followed, with the rescue mission having been successful. Neither pirate have offered the possibility of confirming an agreement of such, but offered their ears in politeness, and perhaps even a step towards payment in thanks for their rescuing.  
By the Princess’s smile and Shiro’s calmness, Keith can guess what direction it has gone in.  
But neither have asked of Lance, nor did they consider the thought to. And for that, he’s allowed to feel angry. 

Everyone’s attentions turn to Leonel’s pod, Keith and Rayon forgetting their glaring competition also. While the half-Human hangs back, Rayon abandons his guard of Uilt’xen in favour of rushing to the dissolving glass to catch Leonel before he tumbled out onto the hard floor.  
The spider had barely taken a step, his body moving on cause without the conscious mind when he fell into the arms of Kenmare and Rayon together, mindful of the Vhoadan’s poison secreting from his barbs. 

“Leonel? Leonel?” Despite Rayon’s guarded exterior, it isn’t hard to see that he cares for his family, sinking with the spider to the floor, keeping him on his lap until his mind can catch up to waking.  
“What’s wrong with him?” Kenmare worried, catching onto his brother’s distrust as he turned to the Paladins that still held back, the flare of his eyes finding them to blame for the unknown.  
Hunk had moved to stand with the team, giving the three space but now he steps forward again, hands raised in mock surrender. “He’s fine Kenmare, he just needs time to come round. It is different for everyone on how they experience the healing pod, but Coran has checked Leonel’s vital signs. He is _healed._ Now he just needs to wake.” 

With less certainty than Hunk hoped for, Kenmare accepts his words, turning his back once again. Worried eyes meet Rayon’s, washing over Leonel as his mind races, chasing ideas that he hopes might help.  
But before any decision can be made, Leonel gasps, oxygen filling his lungs, his body needing to breathe. An arm shoots out blindly, his barbs following suit where they had been folded beneath him. His conscious registered only panic, his mind caught in the fear of still being trapped on _Genwar,_ and he acted accordingly, defending himself. 

It was to the Draora brothers who felt the sting of his barbs, the two of them thrown back from subconscious strength, Leonel screaming names of his family as if he really was fighting for his life, for _their_ lives. For all he knew, he still was. 

Eyes blinded with fear, Leonel forced himself to stand. Legs weak, body weaker, he relied on his barbs to keep himself standing. Kenmare made the mistake of moving in again to help him, offer his shoulder as support, _something._ But the need to breathe took his focus when Leonel lashed out with his hand, took him around the throat, and _squeezed._

“Leonel no, Leonel stop!” Noise erupted, louder than Leonel’s screams, louder than Rayon’s own panic as his brother’s eyes begin to roll back in his head. 

Keith was the closest, darting in, quick, his fingers already over Leonel’s, trying to dig between nail and flesh. To let Kenmare breathe. 

Leonel only saw a threat. He threw his other fist in the boy’s direction, caught by Rayon, but the Draora couldn’t catch the barb that came from behind him, scratching deep down Keith’s forearm. The sliced skin stung, but it did nothing to the stubborn idiot who just yelled at Leonel to stop, pouring all authority he could into his voice. It only made Leonel thrash worse.

“Give them back to me,” he roared, rising up on his barbs, turning to throw them off of him. Kenmare remained in his grip, the clawing of his own hands weakening.  
“Leonel, stop!” Shiro yelled, torn between charging the rampaging Vhoadan and hanging back to give him space. “We are not Galra. We are you allies, you are safe now.” At the mention of his captors, Leonel threw a punch in the Black Paladin’s direction, but he was too far to connect.  
_“Lies!_ I won’t let you break me. I’ll kill you all!” 

Coran grabbed Allura, pulling the Princess from harm’s way when she herself attempted to follow Shiro. He was on Leonel, helping Rayon to pin him to the floor despite everything in his head telling him this wasn’t what Leonel needed, they were only pushing him further down the rabbit hole. Rayon still had Leonel around the middle, Keith ignoring the blood on his arm so that he and his brother helped Kenmare.  
Shiro’s prosthetic was strong enough to overcome Leonel’s subconscious strength, pulling at his three fingers that were close to collapsing Kenmare’s wind pipe. “Leonel, let go!”  
_But why should he?_ Why should he listen to the voices unfamiliar to him? Why should he listen to Voltron any more than he listened to the Galra that have tortured him, torn his mind from its shell and pull it apart. Bruised it, beaten it, flayed and fractured it, until his mind had snapped to the point that he was attacking his Brother because _he didn’t even recognise him._

“Leonel you’re killing him. Let Kenmare go!”  
_“Kenmare?”_

The name was familiar. It jarred the muscles in his hands and, yes, Shiro was able to pry the digits open enough for Kenmare to fall from the spider’s grasp, retching and coughing. Hunk had him, holding him up, pulling him back from danger. 

Leonel has frozen, laying still in Rayon’s hold. He doesn’t fight him, neither Keith who still puts pressure to his arm, in case he tries to attack anyone else. 

“Kenmare?” The name is familiar to him.  
His eyes flash with recognition, blinking repeatedly. He lies still, listening to the sounds around him, differentiating them to the screams he’d hear on _Genwar_ as one of his family was taken by _her._  
He can hear Kenmare gasping for air, the soft tones of Alur and Hunk calming him, holding him steady as he rubs the space between shell and shoulder blades, bringing him to the floor in case the older passes out. “Kenmare it’s okay, just breathe. _Breathe.”_

_“Kenmare?”_

Leonel blinks open his eyes, all of them flickering.  
The colour has returned to them and he can see, the pathway from vision to memory is clear and he recognises Kenmare for who he is. Rayon too, as the Vhoadan turns his head, meeting confusion with worry. Keith can see the understanding they share; and now the danger has passed, releases him.  
Leonel’s not angry now. It’s gone; evaporated as quickly as the situation dissolved into nothing but heavy breathing and beating hearts. 

But fear is quickly replacing anger, and from past experiences, that can be just as damaging as the rage that almost saw to Kenmare’s death. Keith doesn’t know if he should try and explain what is going on, with Rayon and Shiro too busy catching their breath. Neither is acutely aware of the shudder that trembles through Leonel’s his legs, like he’s doing all he can, not to lash out again. 

The responsibility, however, is quickly claimed by Hunk, just as eagle-eyed as the Red Paladin. He moves from Kenmare, who sits by Allura, letting her press her finger’s gently to his neck to check for damage. But he’s breathing, so Keith doesn’t fear Leonel’s grip has done much more than bruise him, and maybe give him a little scare too. 

Hunk starts off slow, introducing the Paladins as Leonel remains on the floor, not yet ready to move, Rayon not yet ready to unwind his arms. 

The air is heavy. Not just for the aliens, but Shiro too, who wears a pained expression as he watches on. Keith knows why; the man sees himself in all of them. The extent of their torture may not have been a courtesy extended from the Galra during his own confinement, but that doesn’t mean that it is an experience he wants to relive, even if it is in his memories.

The tension is slow to ease, too slow for Keith’s liking. He pulls back, allowing Hunk’s words to wash over both aliens, avoiding the subject of _Genwar_ as much as he is able, to avoid dragging Leonel back into his mind. Keith takes his place beside Shiro, once again playing the part of vigil, for both his team and… well, no, maybe just for the team.  
The gift of trust goes both ways of course, and although the pirates are no longer enemies as such, it doesn’t mean that Keith trusts them wholeheartedly. They took Lance away. _How could he trust them?_

Being a diplomat suits Hunk. He’s a genuine teddy bear to anyone who needs a hug, and the best stand-in mom anyone could ask for.  
Keith watches as both Rayon and Leonel are lulled by him. Not just his words but his entire being; real smiles and soft tones, the offer of comfort but the respect of space that keeps him one step back. He’s on his knees, on the floor, not quite comfortable for himself, but showing those he kneels before that he trusts to be in their space because Hunk knows they won’t hurt him. Or he hopes enough at least. 

The spider calms, nodding along to Hunk’s words and the slight niggle that pulls him towards sleep. Healing is exhausting work and he’s done enough of it that he’s had to regrow skin, bone and barb, all in the space of a day. Which means the third alien to wake would soon be asleep again, and the other two would still be kept wrapped in bubble-wrap by the others, lest Keith dare to overwhelm them with a simple question. 

_Where is he?_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Even if Rayon and Kenmare were brothers, it was Leonel who held more similarities to the older, with their shared dislike for sleep and distrust of the team. Or perhaps distrust was being too strong of a word, considering that they had allowed Coran to remain in the med-bay with Uilt’xen while the rest of them convened in the dining hall for food.  
It is with light conversation that the group sit and eat; snacking on hors d’oeuvres that Hunk whipped up, either to impress their new guests or so that there is an array of food so as all three can pick and choose what they’d like.

Keith sits beside Shiro, ignoring the sting of his arm. He hadn’t bothered to let Coran put him in his own cryo-pod like the older Altean insisted, despite it being a shallow, barely-there wound. But now, Keith’s left wondering if that was the best idea as he sits, doing his damnedest to be sociable and not run off to the training room to wear himself out and sleep, in hopes that he’ll wake again when Uilt’xen does. It’s a good idea. And actually, there’s no reason not to.  
His patience wasn’t too strong at the moment and any chance of testing it would probably result in a fight. Verbal, physical, he didn’t care. Actually, he’s testing it right now, sat across from three aliens awake and one down the hall that won’t talk—

Silence. 

Nothing but silence. 

Keith tore his eyes from his dinner plate before him, having been staring but not really seeing. Now, he looks up, to pale faces frozen in shock, fear, anger. They looked to the doorway, unmoving. Still as statues.  
Dead eyes caught hers, silence the only understanding between them as suns burnt into oblivion, millennial wars were won and lost and time itself grew old. 

“What is _she_ doing here?” 

Shiro was the first to stand. “We brought her with us. She is under our protection—”  
_“She_ is the reason we were caught in the first place,” Rayon snarled, standing fast enough that the chair he had been occupying clattered to the floor. Orvis has barely any time to react, Leonel upon her before she can draw knife from gauntlet and defend herself.  
Pidge, who had entered with the Arroyo was grabbed by Kenmare, who jumped away again, Pidge in his arms as if Orvis had been about to attack her, and not his brothers who hold her between their arms, snarling, roaring threats as she struggled against them. 

“Stop!” But Shiro’s command is silenced by Orvis’s scream as Leonel drives a barb into her chest. He’s not strong enough to pierce more than the surface, but with Rayon’s hand and a sharp thrust, the barb sinks in an inch, pushing aside scale and flesh as they dive for her small, shrivelled heart. 

“NO!” 

None could understand the alien’s actions, the team’s initial reaction to save the girl that they had saved once before.  
She wasn’t a threat. Yes, maybe she had betrayed her friends once, spoke when torture became too much and the Galra rubbed the truth of the matter in the other’s faces, to breed distrust between them… _But what could she have done to warrant her own murder?_

“Let her go!” Pidge yelled, wrestling herself from behind Kenmare, who had let the Green Paladin down in favour of joining his brothers in ridding themselves of the Arroyo. The Gremlin charged past Kenmare, their body their only weapon in aid to releasing Orvis before her lungs punctured, her heart pierced, her death certified.  
Pidge wasn’t fast enough.  
They ducked beneath Rayon’s outstretched arm, but it simply followed, and Pidge was caught, passed back to Kenmare in an instant, who held on this time, to keep the Paladin from their vicinity. 

“Don’t hurt her,” Allura yelled, and it was she who was next to join the attempt to save Orvis from death. She was strong enough to push Rayon back, Keith by her side tackling Leonel, taking him and his natural weapons from the sheath of Orvis’s chest. As it was withdrawn, the barb’s tip hooked the chain from her neck, the gold glittering where it lay on the once-pristine floor of the dining hall, now stained with blood that flows from her chest. 

Orvis is shaking, her palms unsteady as she holds out her knife, now useless in her grasp. “What—?” she begins, but a cough steals her words, blood on her tongue, her palm when she moves to hide her weakness in the confusion that… _what is happening?_

Leonel smiles the barest of smiles, his barbs lifting one after another. All of their tips are dipped in black fluid; the one that pierced her chest dripping with her blood and the black substance together, leaving a growing puddle on the floor. 

“Vhoadan poison. You’ll find no cure in time. You’re as good as dead.” 

Allura shakes her head, steadying the Arroyo. Keith draws his bayard for the extra length to defend against the Vhoadan, eyeing the barbs with distrust. He understood now why he had been chained the way he had, the way Shiro described, as if he was the most dangerous of them all. And with the word _‘poison’_ falling from his lips, it wasn’t hard to see why. 

Orvis’s grip on her knife falters, the thing dropping to the floor, clattering away to the feet of Kenmare who roars in anger, now that their saviours are siding with the _sakaala_ that murdered Valion. 

“Don’t help her,” he growls, but the fist raised will not fall upon Shiro, who bars his path, his own weapon drawn. The familiar Galran glow jolts the younger twin, his mind casting him back to chains and whips and _pain._ “She deserves death!”  
“She made a mistake, give her a chance,” Shiro yells back. He only needs to buy enough time to calm the aliens. Then with Orvis in a healing pod, they could have Coran rid the poison from her system. She wouldn’t die, if they could help it. 

But lights and a hand of purple will not stay the rage of heartbreak. Kenmare charges the Black Paladin, arms around his waist, the instinct to fight tearing at logic that tells him these are his saviours, they don’t know, _they don’t know—_

“She deceived us!”  
“That doesn’t justify killing her!” Hunk shouted, rushing forward before the Draora could charge again, this time be forced to fend off the Princess who protects the one he sees as enemy.  
His hand grabs Rayon to anchor him, loose enough to be shaken off. But he wasn’t. 

Hunk has harboured peace with the aliens from the beginning, their reason to trust him greater than any reason to trust the others. At least they don’t fight Hunk. At least they try and explain to him their want of the Arroyo’s death.  
But Hunk won’t understand, let alone give his approval because she… she was their family, _right?_ And no matter how much family fought, that was no reason to fight them, ban their words and kill them without the opportunity given to hear what they have to say.

“She was the one that turned on us.”  
“She spoke truths to save herself—”  
“NO! She _betrayed_ us. She took herself to the Galra before we even attacked _Genwar._ She told them we were coming. She pulled the soldiers away from the Hycis so that we could get to them easier—”  
“Then she was on your side,” Hunk argued, but it wasn’t for him to say, Rayon turning to him with anger and pain and rage, firing out of his mouth like bullets. “No, it wasn’t to help us, it was to trap us and the Hycis alike.”

Quiet fills the room once more. 

The fight in the aliens don’t leave them, but there is no outward struggle to take Orvis’s life. They just stand there, watching her try to breathe, watching Allura try and stem the flow of blood that is now no more than a gentle trickle from her chest. 

Hunk doesn’t know what to think. _None_ of them know what to think.  
They don’t even know what to say, what would alleviate the tension, or what would turn the Solnha against Voltron. They had to understand that the team didn’t want to fight, but they fought enemies to save the innocent.  
_But they’re saying that Orvis isn’t innocent. They’re saying that she is just as bad as the Galra…_

Leonel’s mandibles click in anger, the spotlight his for the taking with one step and hate-filled words. “She did it, because she knew we would all be at a disadvantage, trying to protect as well as to fight. _She knew.”_ He glares at her, fire meeting ice. Her eyes and his. 

The team hesitates for a second time, their minds trying to understand claims that they have no knowledge of. And not enough to know of any of them to know who was lying…

Orvis doesn’t defend herself, doesn’t fight back, ignoring the blood on her lips. She only glares, as if challenging the others to really kill her.  
Allura takes a half step back. 

“You always wanted him, didn’t you,” Rayon growls, a faint sadness in the undertones of his voice, as he fights emotion to stay angry, stay strong in rage and not to crumble apart in tears like he wants to. Keith can see it, can see himself in the moments that Rayon feels more than just fire in his gut at the thought that another has laid a hand on his family. 

“You didn’t want him like Gereen, like your brother, but you wanted him all the same. To hurt Eldar. To hurt us. To hurt _him._ ” 

Orvis just bit out laughter. “I didn’t want to _hurt_ him. I wanted to _kill_ him.” 

The confession is enough to pull Allura from her side, to halt Pidge and Shiro’s internal battle.  
Orvis wasn’t one of the Solnha. She might’ve been, once, but the confusion to where she stood was cleared in the instant when she pulled the handle from her hip, the small baton twirled in her hand menacingly. In another instant, her fingers squeezed the grip of a bo staff, the weapon having shifted longer, heavier. 

The Draora levelled his eyes with Orvis, murder in his entire being. “You did kill him. _You killed Valion.”_

“And I enjoyed doing so.”  
She smiles, taking delight in the horror shared between all that gather, the bo in her hands twisted until the end points out, catching the gold that glitters on the floor. She hooks it, lifts it, and draws it back to her hand as if the thing is some prized possession. Kenmare stiffens at the recognition, Rayon and Leonel throwing her death threats.

Not a prized possession. _A trophy._

Something keeps the pirates back from trying to kill her again. Maybe they want the truth. Maybe they want the team to learn just what she has done before they deal with her for good. 

“I smelt this on him the second our blades met,” Orvis said, the gold laid on the dorsal of her hand, ignoring the blood that tainted the metal. “It’s got Eldar’s stench all over it. It’s his claim, isn’t it,” she smiles, sharp teeth bared between on show. “It’s not a claim,” Kenmare growled, taking the bait. “Valion isn’t someone to be claimed.”  
“No? Guess not. He didn’t accept Gereen’s claim, nor Ovule’s, but then none of them gave him pretty jewellery. I didn’t realise the _culm_ was so weak to be won over by a trinket.” 

The words are an obvious taunt, but the personal nature was taken to heart by all three Solnha. There was no restraint that would hold them back, and to no one’s surprise, they rushed in. But three injured, weak aliens compared to one who didn’t face torture was an obvious disadvantage. But driven by rage and vengeance wouldn’t allow the three to fall.  
And this time, there were no Paladins to hold them back or to stop them when the Arroyo was disarmed, pinned to the floor with each Draora holding her down by her arms, Leonel standing over her with three barbs pressing into her scales. 

Keith could see Shiro was fighting the morality of it all, Allura and Hunk torn just as much.  
Pidge watched, ready for the bitch’s death. 

And it would come. 

“I should make you suffer,” Leonel spat, his voice shaking, his fourth and final barb hovering above her neck. The gold charm, the last remaining possession of Valion was held in his hand, tainted by her blood.  
“Just like I made you suffer?” Orvis laughed back. She’s not scared. Death is a certainty with the Vhoadan’s poison pumping through her veins, but she knows they don’t have the stomach to do to her what she did to them. 

“What are you going to do? Tie me up? Chain me to the wall? Whip me, bleed me, make me tell you I’m sorry for killing Valion,” she teases. Her tail squirms beside her, but the shift of a barb and it is impaled, pinned to the floor instead of her left arm. Orvis yells out in pain, but the sound dissolves into a mixture of coughs and laughter once more. 

Shiro takes a step forward, but at Rayon’s look, his feet falter. No one else makes to interrupt, all too busy listening to the Arroyo’s confession. “Are you going to make me scream, like I made Uilt’xen scream when I burnt her with Valion’s own sword?”  
Kenmare winces at the memory of his lover screaming, feet from him yet he himself unable to save her as he remained chained to the wall. 

Orvis just turns her head to face his brother. “Are you going to cut me with his blade, like I cut all of you? Why don’t you tear off my scales, see what’s underneath?”  
Rayon averts his eyes, closes them. He’s pale, like he’s fighting the urge to vomit as he is forced to recall his own torment. 

The she-arroyo looks up to the last that stands over her. “Or are you going to tear me apart, limb by limb? Throw my tail to the _bemis,_ watch it grow back and start all over again.” 

The bitch paints a terrifying picture, but to those she tortured for days on end, it is so much more. It is a memory, one they don’t want to relive, but with her words she’s dragging up all that pain, all that fear until they’re shaking with more than just anger.  
Kenmare fights the convulsions of his body. Rayon himself refuses to open his eyes. She’s bringing them down, again, just using her words to bind them to the moment of torture, agony, crippling-fear—

“You’d just enjoy it.” 

Eyes turn to the door, where the newcomer stands, holding her limbs awkwardly where they still pain her from being broken, dislocated and forced back together just so it could all be done again.  
“I thought you were dead,” Orvis says from where she’s pinned to the floor, not really concerned for Uilt’xen’s sudden appearance. The Daratrine fixed her with a dark look. “I wish I could say the same as you. But you wouldn’t die that easy. Neither that _thing_ you call your brother.”  
The insult to Ovule is the only thing that Orvis reacts to. She even snarls, a fight to her limbs but with the strength of the Draora holding her down, she’s not moving anytime soon. 

Uilt’xen can move though. She isn’t held back by anyone, anything. Pushed though, by revenge. The desire for vengeance that makes her take those painful steps towards the one that tortured her, that drove the knife into her chest, laughed when Uilt’xen screamed, laughed harder when the twist of the blade pushed Uilt’xen to the point of sanity and almost beyond.  
_Almost._

“You took our brother from us. You used the Hycis as bait, and killed the ones that couldn’t escape to torture us that little bit more.”  
“Worked didn’t it,” Orvis smiled, but Uilt’xen continued, as if the Arroyo hadn’t spoken. “And it made me wonder. If you could kill them before us, then you’d do the same to him, wouldn’t you.”  
The bitch’s smile faltered. Even the other three turned their eyes to Uilt’xen with confusion. 

Keith watched on, halfway between confusion and hope. For them. That Uilt’xen’s words meant that—  
“You wouldn’t have killed him like that. You would’ve drawn it out. If not killing him before us, then just to torment Valion that much more, you’d kill us instead, one by one with him watching on, knowing he couldn’t do anything to save us.” 

Orvis fought again, snarling at the accusation that—  
“Valion is still alive. You didn’t kill him, like you told us, over and over. Even if he had died in that battle, you would’ve found his body and thrown it at our feet, just for the sake of breaking us that little bit more.” Orvis snarled in defiance, but Keith could see that the anger was more than just to Uilt’xen’s claim that she was lying.  
“You thrive on lies, Orvis. You twist minds because you’re not strong enough to hold onto any real power by yourself. You twisted Gereen into your perfect little puppet, making sure that we all hated _him,_ all focus on _him,_ instead of you. You turned him on Prime, turned the crew on each other when they began to question who they were following and _why.”_  
“How—?” Orvis growled, but Uilt’xen just keeps going. “But you were weak, even then. You only had Garecht spying on you, on your own crew because that was where the greatest threat had lain. Ovule kept them all following your orders, and Garecht slunk about, trying to catch out so-called _“traitors”_ that you could drug up until you could use them without anyone trying to set things straight.” 

Uilt’xen stands over the bitch now, looking down upon her like the dirt she was. 

“You killed Garecht didn’t you. When Valion won, and Gereen lost.”  
“He was weak,” Orvis yelled, anger getting the better of her. She struggled harder, but in vain. “He was useless, pathetic and annoying. Of course I killed him.”  
“But you didn’t kill Valion,” Uilt’xen smiled, her voice beginning to speak with the flow of emotion. Teasing, like Orvis’s own words once were, but the layer underneath is undeniable heartbreak. 

_She’s lying too,_ Keith realises, but Orvis doesn’t know. She can’t hear, when all she focuses on are words that tear her stake to shreds, her hope of ridding herself of a pest brought to naught with the simplest of words. 

“You couldn’t kill him. He was stronger than you. Stronger than all of us.”  
“He’s dead—”  
“He’s not. Because you couldn’t kill him—”  
“No, he’s dead, he’s dead! I killed him myself, he’s dead!” Orvis screamed, repeating the words over and over as she thrashed. Her tantrum was much like a child’s who hadn’t got their own way. And that was all she was; weak, childish. Sly and conniving, turning her back on people that she could control no longer, turning to the Galra that she thought she could use, for the sake of her own twisted form of revenge.  
Revenge on the Solnha, for not being her pawns. 

“He’s dead, I killed him, he’s dead, he’s dead, HE’S DEAD!”

“Oh, _shut the fuck up.”_  
Keith could stand it no longer, crossing the distance in two sharp strides. Orvis barely had time to flick her eyes from the Daratrine to the half-Galra before he raised his foot. And to the chorus of all gathered, Keith brought down the heel of his foot, crushing throat, windpipe, spine.  
Orvis’s last breath rattled in her chest. 

Silence fills the room once more.  
Thick, heavy, _painful_ silence, only broken by the sounds of the four retreating from the dead body. Kenmare gathers Uilt’xen in his arms, but she doesn’t return the affection; too drained, too broken to do much more than meet the other three’s eyes.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you too.” But they don’t blame her.  
Uilt’xen’s words were to hurt Orvis, to crush her last ‘achievement’ before they killed her. A little of their own revenge in placement for the death of their comrade. 

The team say nothing when the weight brings them to their knees. Tears are shed, comfort sought and given in the same instance as the four of them relive Valion’s death over and over again.  
Keith knows the pain of false hope, built by his own uncontrollable thoughts that had grown inside him when he, in that base that they were tortured, ran forth blindly in hopes that it was Lance in that healing-pod and not that damn Galra that deserved death, a thousand times over. Just like Orvis, just like Zarkon, just like every enemy they have ever faced and are yet to stand before on the battlefield. 

He had hoped that killing the bitch, like she deserved would bring him some sort of comfort. But it did nothing to quench the thirst for enemy blood, did nothing for the sake of bringing him closer to the boy that is somewhere, out there, waiting for them. 

But a fear scratched at his throat as his eyes swept across the Solnha, a niggling thought fearing that that would be him, and the team if Lance was to share the same fate as Valion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 37# Upload Scheduled for Friday 7th


	37. A Want To Be Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the aliens are finally awake. And the team are finally prepared to ask their questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, this chapter hasn't been completely Beta read due to upcoming finals. 
> 
> (Good luck guys)

**System:** Iitharra  
**Location:** Space

Allura knocked lightly on the door, pushing it open with one hand whilst the warm broth remained balanced in the other. It was Hunk’s peace offering; unneeded now that the aliens understood Voltron was on their side, but Allura suspected there was more to it than just continuing to curry favour with the Solnha survivors. Perhaps there was comfort folded into his meals too. 

Uilt’xen didn’t say anything to Allura’s arrival, so the princess let herself enter entirely, approaching the side of the walkway where the Daratrine sat. She had pulled her arms up around her body, allowing her legs swinging over the central energy core. It hissed and crackled beneath her, her eyes transfixed on the light and raw power of the pure energy core that made up the fuel of the Castle of Lion’s main engine.  
The power source may be the Balmeran Crystal, but this was where it was transmuted into usable energy to power the engines. Beautiful in its own right. 

Uilt’xen must’ve found comfort here, because once the poor girl had stumbled upon the Central Energy Chamber, she hadn’t moved. Not for her family, not even for her lover. Kenmare, however, was a servant to his stomach, and although Uilt’xen ignored the desire to eat, he did not.  
And so, instead of letting the Daratrine wallow alone, Allura had offered herself for company, taking with her food. Despite Uilt’xen’s stubbornness, she couldn’t stop herself from growing hungry. 

“Dinner,” Allura said, making a show of lifting the bowl. Uilt’xen barely turned her head, but she didn’t ask for solitude. Her silence remained as the Princess crossed the remaining distance, settling spoon and bowl beside the other, and settling herself down too. 

She didn’t let her feet hang the distance above the central energy core. Instead, she curled them around her body, crossing her legs, her arms hugging around her midriff much like the other, if only to fight the chill of the room. It wasn’t heated for the purpose of saving energy that needn’t be wasted.  
Uilt’xen didn’t feel the cold. That was her luck with her amphibian nature. 

“Thank you, but no thank you,” Uilt’xen said after a moment, realising that Allura planned to accompany her. 

“I can get you something else if you like. If there’s anything that you fancy, just say and Hunk will cook it up like _that.”_ She snapped her fingers to emphasis her point, but the smile and warmth fell cold upon Uilt’xen’s dead eyes. “Thank you, but no thank you. I’m not hungry.” 

“Well, if you ever change your mind,”  
Allura offered, knowing not to push. She herself had lost her appetite when ten thousand years passed in the blink of an eye and she was left alone with only Coran as her family. But for the sake of the team, for Voltron and the entire universe, Allura had forced herself to eat and remain strong.  
Uilt’xen simply needed to find the strength to stand. She’d get there.  
But first, perhaps a little nudge in the right direction. 

“You don’t have to sit here by yourself. Even if you don’t want to eat, it can’t be comforting to be here alone.”  
“The one I want to see won’t be there.” Her words were soft, a simple pass of air between lips. Anything more and the poor girl might just pass out from exhaustion.  
Uilt’xen had only been sitting here, but it was the regret in her mind that had her tired ever since waking. At first, perhaps it had been just the disbelief that this wasn’t her own escape; a dream woven around her breaking, shattered mind for the sake of trying to preserve _something._ To not allow Orvis to fully break her.  
But as the day stretched longer and longer, the Daratrine still in her dream, her world changing with every new moment; Orvis’s death, the truth of Valion, _the pain_ of losing Valion… 

Maybe this wasn’t a dream.  
Maybe this was reality and they had escaped.  
Been saved.  
_Are_ safe. 

But not Valion.

And it was for him she grieved and wrapped herself in the torment of self-blame. She hadn’t been strong enough. She had fallen, and relied on him, and gotten him killed.  
_She hadn’t been strong enough._

The grief at the news of Valion’s death wasn’t something Uilt’xen could run from. Even when she turned from her own hope-filled words, she had tried to run from the lies she spoke herself; limbs moving automatically, brain shut off from functioning anything but the ability to walk. Away from the sadness, the pain of loss, the truth that another Brother had fallen to the Galra Empire.  
Uilt’xen couldn’t walk away from it though, shown in the cape of depression that stained her skin a murky brown; unsightly compared to the usual hue of setting sun she was usually blessed with. 

“If it’s any consolation, I know what you’re going through,” Allura told the silence, shifting to find comfort before he body stiffened. She let her legs swing over the walk way, listening to the resounding echo of her words. Listened to them, and understood they were false.  
“No. It is no consolation,” she amended, the smile she wore removed. There was no need for masks now.  
“But I have been where you are, for my planet, my people and my family. And all I can offer is that; _it gets easier.”_

Not easy.  
Easier. 

Uilt’xen’s eyes are on the Princess, but whatever she feels, she’s not expressing it. Or maybe she is, and all she feels is nothing. Sad, lonely, _empty nothing_ because she doesn’t know what is to happen now Valion is gone. And now, she doesn’t even have the energy to care. The universe be damned. It had taken her Brother from her. What was the point in fighting, if even the strong died? What hope was there for the rest of them, if even Valion…

Allura meets the young girl’s eyes, a question in her gaze. Uilt’xen hears the unspoken words and turns face. _No questions,_ her silence says.  
She’ll accept the company, if that is what Allura wants to give but talking is not for her yet.  
She’s not ready to speak yet. 

“I lost my Father not too long ago.” Because the silence is too heavy, and Allura feels the need to do _something._ “For me, it wasn’t too long ago, but in truth, it was ten-thousand years ago. We were fighting Zarkon when the war was young and the Galra still felt the pain of losing _Daibazaal._  
“By my father’s word, he forced me from his side, I order to save me. I never got to say goodbye.” 

Allura stares at the energy core, watching light arc across its surface. She’s not sure if her words offer anything to the Daratrine, but all she can recall is the day she lost the battle with Zarkon. The day they lost Altea and its King. 

She stares and stares, staring past the dancing light to the war that she remembers as if it was only yesterday. She remembered more than the battle, more than his death and the passing of the flame, extinguished far too soon. 

Allura remembered more than the sadness.  
She remembered her father’s smile in the sunshine, the call of his voice that would ride the wind to her as she danced in the meadows of a thousand flowers. She remembered the smile that would bless her father’s gentle, weathered face when she called his name, ran to his legs and grabbed hold of the soft cloak that smelt of June-berries.  
Allura remembered holding his hand when she took her first steps, remembered his laughter when she spoke to him. She remembered the first time she could use her Altean Chameleon abilities and grew a moustache just like Coran’s, just to hear her Father laugh. 

“I remember him as I knew him. I remember the happiness we shared; moments now precious to me. You say Valion was a dear friend. Then hold tight to the happiness you shared. It will help in the days to come.” 

Tears came then. Hot and endless, they poured over Uilt’xen’s brown skin, down the point of her chin into hands that she buried her face in. Silently, she released the pain that had taken hold of her heart, and in those moments, she let it all go. 

Still no words.  
Still not ready to speak. 

Allura doesn’t press. Because she understands the need for privacy and the pride that comes when you can’t hold the tears in anymore.  
To Shiro she has cried, to Coran too. But now, she doesn’t, knowing that she has to be strong for a moment longer. There are no more words given, but the two of them, so alike in their pain and the moment of memories, take comfort from one another. 

It is there, where she sits, wearing his Blue on her chest, that she lets her mind return to Lance and the memories that she holds of him. 

A hand on the Blue, and she can remember his smile pulled over caramel skin, the light and warmth that filled her when he laughed and spread joy around the ship with his silly childish antics that she always found endearing. She never told him. She never thought to, nor did she think she _had_ to. 

Allura remembers the lilt of Lance’s voice that sung sweet music she has never heard, with words that didn’t make sense but filled with such joy and excitement that she knows those songs will be in her memories always. Without Lance, the castle has been disconcertingly quiet, even if Hunk and Pidge have done their hardest to remain upbeat for their missing comrade. But two can’t be three without Lance, and the notion of his absence it ingrained in her memory as well. 

Allura remembers the words Lance would speak in greeting, the nicknames to his Space Family, the jokes and the flirting which she pretended to hate, and hates that she pretended… 

Allura remembers Lance and she holds onto the happiness these memories bring her.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Orvis was disposed of quickly and without fuss. They weren’t disrespectful to her anymore than she didn’t deserve, letting her body be burned by the Castle’s engines as they released her from the airlock with no more than silence between them. It was Keith and Pidge who took the responsibility upon themselves, making no fuss as the others hurried the four aliens away, where warmth and soft lights would ease them back into comfort.

Pidge didn’t say anything about Keith’s final actions against the Arroyo, but he could see the Green Paladin hoped to say _something._ With the arrival of Coran, the moment was lost. 

“They’ve agreed to speak with us,” he says, instead of words the Pidge wishes to speak as well. “Allura has calmed Uilt’xen, and now that the four of them are awake, they have agreed to tell us how to find the Solnha.” Keith straightened at the news, but before questions are asked, Coran continues. 

“And this time, we’re going to ask after Lance.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Do you think they really know if Lance is with them or not?” Pidge asks, their steps falling in time to Keith’s rushed ones. He doesn’t provide an answer to the question, but they’re already on their second, _third,_ so it’s not like Pidge is looking for an actual answer. “—Because I could understand if they haven’t met him. The fleet is easily over a thousand strong, maybe even stronger, so it’s not like they’ve had a chance to meet _every_ single person who fights alongside them. And Lance couldn’t have been with them for longer than six months, give or take. Okay, so _maybe_ there is a chance they’ve met him but—”

“Pidge.”  
Keith’s voice isn’t loud, nor is angry. But he speaks with a tone that asks for quiet. 

Quiet is given, in ode to their hurrying footsteps, with Coran the only one of the three that doesn’t look like he’s rushing. But it is only in his outward appearance, Keith notes, knowing the man not to be so stiff, or tight-lipped for that matter. 

The aliens are waiting for them in the lounge.

The others are waiting too, all having taken their respective places on the sofa. Keith looks to the place left for him, but he’s too tense, his nerves too wired to allow him to do something as simple as sitting. He votes to stand, remaining by the edge of the circular sofa, folding his arms if only to give them something to do. It doesn’t come off calming, if Leonel and Rayon’s flickering eyes have anything to tell him, but there is no movement from the Red Paladin to stand down. Not here. Not now.  
Not when they’re this close to Lance.

Pidge slides in next to Hunk and Allura, crossing their legs and trying not to look as tense as they feel.  
The presence of all the Paladins and the older Altean announced that they were ready to begin talking.

It is Allura who takes the floor first. Practised in the arts of diplomacy, and with many alliance meetings behind her, it makes sense for the Princess to lead. She sticks to the formalities, beginning with the introduction of the team, even though the aliens are sure to know them all by now.  
Yet formalities are the proper etiquette, and they are upheld on the Solnha’s side too, as Rayon takes command and introduces his family by name, followed by a secondary thanks for their recent rescue. 

“You have questions for us, we know that. We will answer what we can, in respect to your initiation of peace,” he said, turning back to his family, who shared their response of solemn eyes, all nodding to Rayon’s words. “But if there is anything you ask of us, about our family, that will put risk to the Solnha, then know that we will not give it.”  
His words carried such authority that the others were sure that he was the Leader of their group, and not the fallen warrior; Valion.  
But it is not so, and with his passing, it is Rayon who takes the mantle that was left behind.

“We cannot ask for more,” Allura began, but the other was yet to finish speaking.  
“I know you have spoken to my Brother about a truce between the Solnha Alliance and Voltron. If that is truly what you seek, then know now that I have no authority of the matter, nor can I speak on behalf of my Prime, now that Valion…” His voice faltered on his friend’s name, but with a slight shake of his head and a moment to collect his thoughts, the Draora continued.  
“I am only here, speaking to you as Rayon, first-born, Son of _Jastra.”_

Allura nodded again, as did the other Paladins. They sat themselves straighter, eager for Allura to turn from formalities, to focus on Lance.  
But it wasn’t a “head-first” approach that began their talks. Instead, the Princess refers to her and Shiro’s conversation with Kenmare back when Rayon had just woken, and the other two were still healing.  
She explained her proposition from the start, not only for the sake of Uilt’xen and Leonel who weren’t awake, but for the other Paladins who had been fighting with their emotions and everything else.

“We all have the same enemy,” she says, the words one she adopts for many a treaty. “It only makes sense to join forces and fight alongside one another.”  
“A matter for the Solnha Leaders to discuss. But they too have adopted these thoughts since Valion’s arrival.”  
Uilt’xen’s voice holds a note of melancholy, her smile shared with Kenmare. But it’s pale, like moonlight upon a calm and serene sea. She loved him, it’s clear to see, and his death is something that will pain them for a long time. But they’re trying. Perhaps for his sake.  
If they say it was he, who unified the pirates to turn against the Galra, then they’re warming peace with Voltron to honour him. Hopefully the remaining Solnha feel the same. 

As discussions continue, Keith grows increasingly irritated. It’s not just that the aliens are awake and yet to tell him of Lance, but it’s Allura’s blatant disregard for him. She may be playing the part of diplomat, but the giant, blue turtle has already stated, very clearly, that no such arrangement would be made in this meeting, or any conversation that isn’t held between her and the Leaders of the Pirates.

But questions of Lance can be answered. 

Questions about their missing Blue Paladin won’t be considered as a threat to them or the Solnha. They probably wouldn’t even consider the importance of him, seeing him as just another in the ranks of the rogue alliance. 

Keith had thought that it was Lance who united the pirates, but in this vast universe, his blue-idiot isn’t the only selfless, altruistic, benevolent fool that would lay down his life for the sake of others. Perhaps Lance even knew Valion. Perhaps he respected and loved him, just like these Solnha that gather before them. 

The boy steps forward. 

Eyes turn to him instantly, Shiro’s words fading into nothing as he turns too, reading the way Keith unwinds his arms, fists still clenched. Eyes, hard-set, breath quick in his throat.  
“We’re looking for someone,” he says to the silence, eyes flickering between the faces of the Solnha that watch him. Their own expressions are masks, much like his own, hiding more than just confusion. Pity. Fear. Sorrow. 

“His name is—”  
“Don’t ask.” 

Uilt’xen’s words carried, silencing Keith’s before he could fully form the question that was poised on all of their tongues. Even if the others were not willingly to plough ahead and demand the truth, they wanted to know, just as much as Keith. They’d let him demand all he wanted, knowing he wouldn’t beat around the bush. Politics be damned, Keith wanted answers. And he’d get them. 

But Uilt’xen remained to bar his way. “Please,” she said softly, not at all the strong warrior that they had seen stand against her torturer. She wasn’t meeting the Paladin’s gaze, instead finding focus upon the floor; too ashamed to meet their eyes.

“Don’t ask. You don’t want to hear it.” 

But Keith doesn’t take heed to her warning, but instead the implications of her words.  
“You know,” he breathes, barely able to think more than _she knows, they all know._

Lance. They know where he is.

Behind Uilt’xen, Rayon and Leonel look to one another, their lips tight, faces cold in the pale light of fear. Kenmare closes his eyes from pain, but none of them are seen as all eyes remain solely on the Daratrine who has spoken words of gold for the Paladins that have been searching, for far too long.  
They can’t hide their smiles, their bodies releasing tension that wound them up tight before they’d even realised what it was that 

“We want to know,” he says, forging ahead. Pain ripples from crescent marks in his palms where he clenches his fists too tightly, but he doesn’t care, _he couldn’t care less,_ not when Lance is so close. He’s actually there this time, with the pirates on their ships, like Hunk said he’d be, like he hoped for _so damn long._

“We want to know,” the boy repeats, taking a step forward. Kenmare shifts his own feet, his stance reminiscent of defence, but Keith can’t see that. He only focused on the Daratrine and her bowed head. She’s the one who has the answer. She’s the one that will tell him where Lance is, so that Keith can find him, apologise to him, _bring him home—_

“Why do you want to know so badly,” Kenmare growls where he stands, his own three fingers curled into heavy-hitting fists, standing between Uilt’xen and the half-Galra’s intent stare. The question is a surprise, but with much the same energy, Keith answers “because he’s my family. I’m worried about him.” 

Apparently what Keith said was funny, because the Draora snorts. Rayon and Leonel share glowers, but not to the younger, but to Keith and those that have stood as well. Shiro anchors Keith with a grip on his shoulder, Hunk closing in on the boy’s personal space as a barrier to him and a deterrent to Kenmare and his brothers that have stood too. 

It is a show of power, with tension rising with every second. It is not that Keith doesn’t want peace with the pirates. He just wants Lance more.

“He’s family—” Keith repeated, but the word is thrown back in his face.  
_“Family?_ You don’t even know the meaning of the word,” Kenmare bites, his beak pulled back into a snarl. His eyes flicker to Allura, to the Paladin armour she wears, his glower hardening. “If how you treat Lance is the way you treat family, then no wonder he came to us.” 

There is a split-second of happiness, in the one moment that Kenmare speaks Lance’s name, without the team having to speak it themselves. 

But it is only a moment, as the Draora continues. “He never told us about you, never said what you did and why you cast him out, but it wasn’t hard to guess why. He used to throw himself into training with everything he had, always saying he needed to be stronger, that he couldn’t lose a fight and risk our lives for his.

“Even when we didn’t know him, not then when he first came to us and we were still unsure about him, he was _always_ loyal, always on our side. Because that is Lance. He gives himself one-hundred percent, but wouldn’t take anything in return, like he’s grown used to the idea of being used by everyone.”  
Kenmare had steadily grown more and more vehement as he spoken, though the calm in his voice, the truth in his heart, stayed. He was panting, a little, by the time he finished. 

Keith looked angry and cowed and murderous, all at once. Allura had a hand over her mouth, trying desperately not to cry. Hunk and Pidge seemed ambivalent. Shiro, for his part, was trying to anchor himself alongside Keith as the thought that it was _his words_ that drove Lance to the edge. He can’t recall how many times he has been thrown back in the hangar, listening to Lance’s words when all he had sought to do was see if the boy was well and offer him advice, like Lance did for him whenever they had their midnight meetings in the kitchen.  
But he had failed the boy, and it was here in this moment that he was beginning to fully understand just what he had done. 

“I’m sorry,” the Black Paladin apologises in place of Keith, in place of _all of them,_ as Hunk pulls him back a step, to stunt his reach should he try and physically fight.  
“Keith is headstrong, but he has a good heart. We all miss Lance.” Because what can he say, really? The apologies are for Lance, not for the pirates that are his new family. And Shiro knows, that nothing he or the others say will change the pirates mind about the way Voltron treated Lance. It’s obvious. Otherwise, Lance would’ve returned to them, long ago.

“We just want him to come home.”  
“And you think that this here is his home?” 

The Draora’s voice is bitter as he snaps out words. Tears prickle in his eyes. “You think he’d want to come back _here?_ You think that Lance would willingly come back here, and leave his family again? Didn’t you stop to think _why he left in the first place?”_

“We… we miss him. He’s _family,”_ Pidge says softly, tears in their voice, yet their cheeks remain dry.  
“You pushed him away. How can you call yourself _family?”_ Leonel tells them, with less poison on his tongue. But still, it cracks like a whip, and Pidge flinches under his glare. 

“You’re not his family. You might be kin, some of you,” he says, eyes passing over Allura and Coran with the same bridled anger, “but he was never really your family. The time spent apart can attest to that, without him having telling us as such.” 

The words are a slap to the face.  
The Humans and Alteans alike stare with jaws slack, eyes wide. 

Leonel continues. “When Eldar first began to court Lance, he said _he wasn’t worthy._ That _he didn’t deserve love._ And that’s not the real Lance—”  
“You don’t know the real Lance,” Keith snarled, but anything else wanting to be spoken was silenced by Rayon, who stood beside his brother and defended Lance against these _culm_ that pretended they were Lance’s family. 

“We knew him more than you!” he shouted, anger in his words. 

“We knew that he was a strong fighter, we knew he was smart and clever and funny, and loyal and selfless and… That. _That_ is Lance.

“We all knew that he was stronger than he thought he was. We knew that there had to be someone out there, that had made Lance feel otherwise. It took him a long time to stop listening to Anadón telling him he was weak and worthless. It took him a long time to listen to all of us instead, but he did it. Because Valion is _strong._

“He was strong enough to unite all of us together. He stopped the infighting and unified us against the Galra, and all of a sudden, we were _all_ stronger together. Because Valion believed in us. Because Valion was leading us.”

Keith stared. Mouth agape. 

Thoughts churned inside his head, twisting and turning until they were too tangled to tell apart from one another; a giant storm of serpents that coiled in his mind, the pain of their poison spreading like ice in his veins. 

_“Valion…”_

Keith scanned the faces of the pirates before him, ignoring the way Leonel and Rayon have come to stand by Kenmare, bodyguards to him as much as Shiro and Hunk are guarding Keith. But they’re protecting him from himself, his own twisted, out-of-control, hell-bent anger that…. _Isn’t._  
He’s not angry. He’s confused. His mind won’t stop catching on the name that Rayon had spoken and Kenmare had spoken and Leonel had… 

_What?_

“No. No way,” he says, ignoring what the lies that they’re trying to tell him.  
Because that’s it. They are just lies. 

_Lance is not…_

_He can’t…_

“You’re lying,” Keith spits. He tries to take a step closer, but Shiro still holds firm. “He’s with you. You’re just lying. He’s not Valion. He _can’t_ be.”  
_“Can’t be?_ Why? Because you don’t believe us when we say he’s strong?” Leonel shot back, his mandibles clicking, the barbs on his back restless. But the poison hadn’t hurt Keith before, so he didn’t fear the bastard now. Didn’t mean he was going to avoid a fight either. He’d beat them all black and blue for daring to suggest that Lance was de—

“Valion is the name he was given when he beat Gereen in the duel, _because he was strong._ Valion was the name we all gave him, _because we respected him._ We loved him and respected him and _followed_ him. Because he. Was. Strong.”  
Leonel’s voice is loud and he’s so close to shouting. None of his family try to step in and stop him; their own instincts still wired from the time as prisoners. Keith poses a threat, and they are ready to meet him with fists and fangs a like.

“No.” 

_Denial._  
Just as the pirates had expressed themselves on hearing that Valion was no longer with them; that he hadn’t been saved, that he had been lost—

“Lance may not be dead—” Hunk begins, but it is fruitless.  
“He wasn’t there. How can you say Valion is still alive when it was the Galra who were our captors? They’ve wanted Valion longer than they’ve wanted any of us. He knew that, he knew the risks of travelling to Genwar—”  
“We all did.”  
The younger lets his voice rise up, the anger and despair he felt to his brethren’s death once more released. “It was risky for all of us, and still we went, to save the Hycis because they asked for our help. Valion made us into those that would help others— No. That is who Valion is, and because we respected him, we followed his lead. We vowed we would fight for him, that we would protect him just like he protected us.”

Impatience crawls its way up Keith’s throat in a feral snarl and he closes the gap to grab the front of Rayon’s shell and pull him down so that their noses are almost touching. “You’re lying. Where is Lance?”

“Don’t touch—”  
_“Where is he?”_

“HE’S DEAD!”  
Rayon’s words are as painful as his punch, connecting with Keith’s body and forcing him back where Hunk holds him tighter, his feet already dragging the Red Paladin back. Rayon doesn’t follow him though, already shouting at the top of his lungs, demands Keith see reason. To understand the truth. 

Lance is dead. 

“He died. We couldn’t save him. He was there, with us, on _Genwar_ and we were trapped. And now we’re here and he’s not, because when the base fell apart around us, he was lost to _Genwar’s_ fires. I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t even _think_ it could be true. Because Valion is strong, stronger than us. He’s… he’s… he’s _Valion._ He fought Gereen and _won._ He made Matriarch see reason, he wasn’t even intimidated by her. He was blessed by a star-child. Zaos even leant her own strength, but it wasn’t enough, and now _he’s gone.”_

“He can’t be just _‘gone.’”_

Keith’s denial changes then. His anger returns, furious, unrelenting and Keith can’t control it, doesn’t even try, as he curls his hand into a tight fist of rage and curses, breaking free from Hunk’s grip, slamming his entire body into Rayon’s. The sheer impact causes the two of them to tumble to the ground. Hunk and Shiro are too far to stop the fight. None of the pirates’ step in either. 

Anger boils under the pair’s skin, pulsing through their veins as rage fuels their motions into fists and a dealt punch. Pidge screamed as the sound of knuckle met flesh, and the two pulled back from one another. Their anger, wet anger; that saw tears in their eyes and poison on their tongues, took their grief and warped it. Denial and anger became guilt, blame, sorrow, pain, unadulterated rage—

“He’s not dead.”  
“HE IS AND YOU CAN’T CHANGE THAT!” Rayon yells. He pushes back, squaring off against the puny runt of a Human, nothing like Valion whom he respected and loved. And now he’s gone and this _Dahast_ can’t seem to understand the grief that has plagued him since he woke up. 

For Keith, there no grief. Because he’s not mourning a brother lost, _because Lance isn’t lost,_ he’s just waiting, with the rest of the Solnha, and all the team has to do is find them and find Lance and bring him home. 

Anger. That is all there is.  
Grief is masked by the anger, the truth that Keith knew deep, _deep_ down inside is being forced into the light by this _bastard who claims to be Lance’s family._  
But Keith won’t have it. It’s not true. _It can’t be true._

“HE’S NOT DEAD! You’re lying, all of you are lying,” the boy shout, fists flying at the solid hands that hold him. He doesn’t care who it is, doesn’t care about anything other than telling Rayon he was _wrong._

Because he _was_ wrong.  
Lance wasn’t dead. There was no way—

Keith broke free from the chains of pain and he’s swinging a fist at the blue turtle before him. Rayon meets it with a block, leaving him to follow through with a punch to the center of Keith’s chest. He didn’t block it, didn’t try, didn’t even see it coming at him.  
He can’t see well. There’s something in his eyes. Something on his face. It’s hot, it’s wet. 

Keith can’t see properly, but he doesn’t care as he falls back with the moment of the blow, pain in his arms, his hands, his _heart._ His chest is heavy, the world is tilting and he’s falling into the arms of a man who has known the truth all along. “He can’t be,” Keith tells his brother, trying to find the escape from this nightmare. “He can’t be.”

Shiro shares his tears. Hunk too. They wrap their arms around Keith, leaning into one another’s space, feeling the press of more bodies as Pidge, Allura, Coran, join them. 

“No, no, _no!_ That can’t be… _it can’t be.”_  
But it is, and the truth cannot be changed, no matter how much they wish it all so.

Lance is… 

Lance is… 

_Lance is…_

They are broken now.  
Broken by the truth that they lost Lance. 

They were too late to save him. 

_Because Lance is dead._


	38. A Want To Mourn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is dead. The team had accepted it in their minds, months ago. But maybe none of them had accepted it in their hearts. Now, they must learn to accept the pain and move on, as Lance would want them to do. They’re going to find the rest of the Solnha, they’re going to form a treaty and they’re going to defeat the Empire for once and for all. In honour of Lance, Blue Paladin of Voltron, Valion of the Solnha Alliance.

**System:** Iitharra  
**Location:** Space

Finding the Solnha is just as hard the second time as it was the first, even with the survivors there to help. But even with the pirate’s knowledge on their companion’s previous whereabouts, it does nothing to add them in finding them in their _current_ position. 

The decision to find the Solnha was made long before the team learnt of Lance, before the first pirates woke, before Voltron ever infiltrated _Genwar._ The search was taken on by Pidge, just as thorough, just as obsessed as they had been when Lance was the one they sought from the stars. It is with the airs of desperation that they throw themselves to their chair, hands never stopping in their continuous tap of the keys, much like Keith’s own constant barrage against the Gladiators in the training hall. Shiro joins him there daily, as does Hunk and the three hard-hitters of the Solnha, sparring against the Paladins for a sake to work out their pent-up frustration for the Galra. 

There is no animosity between Keith and the pirates anymore. Not quite friendship, or a relationship of the sort, but there is the understanding that the Galra are who killed Lance and a mutual hatred for the scum that deserve a long, eternal suffering for the crimes they have committed.  
It is this reciprocated thought that allows them to train with one another and burn off energy when the robots aren’t enough and they seek blood. Of course, the other Paladins will never let them beat themselves up too much, with Coran being the whip that cracks when enough is enough and the four are to shower, eat and sleep until the following day. 

Uilt’xen seeks company with the Princess, and although they too are not quite friends, their common pain allows their closeness as they sit together on the Bridge, trading stories of Lance and Valion alike. 

It is the closest to peace the team have come across for months.  
Fragile and brittle, but reminiscent of calm under all the still-feeling pain that haunts them from one morning to the next.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Ruse Minor  
 **Location:** Space

Keith sat on the floor, his numb fingers clinging to the fabric of the red jacket he had once lent Lance. To hide his hurt. He had done it for the sake of Lance; because the boy hadn’t wanted to worry the team. But maybe Lance took at Keith wanting to hide his injuries. Hide his hurt, hide his pain, hide all his mistakes and stop dragging the team down….  
If that was what Lance had thought, then Keith wished he’d never given the dumb fuck his jacket. 

He held it now; his red leather jacket scrunched between bone-white knuckles, like Keith was trying to rip through the fabric through sheer force of will. The pain of creaking bone was the only anchor he could hold onto to stop himself self-destructing. His anger hadn’t left him. Not really. Not truly.  
He should’ve been taking comfort from the fact that he snapped the neck of the bitch that had killed his best friend. 

_Best friend?_  
Could he say that? 

No.  
Not really. 

Time escaped his noticed as he remained there, not in his own room, but Lance’s, surrounded by emptiness. Cold, lonely emptiness that wasn’t to be filled by Lance because he was gone and he was dead and _he wasn’t coming home._  
But then, this wasn’t really his home, was it, Keith thinks, a snort to himself that is a cough and a sob and the crack in the floodwalls. He doesn’t cry like the world is falling apart. It’s already fallen. The idiot has only just noticed, and it’s too late to patch the holes, to steady himself before the horde swarms in and breaks down his walls. 

Keith cries, mourning the world that has passed.  
Steady streams of tears trickle down his cheeks, his mind numb, his body cold and unfeeling. He doesn’t hear the words of the newcomer. He doesn’t feel the dip of the bed behind him, or the hand that is placed on his back for comfort. 

“Come on. This will do you no good.” 

“I’m fine right here,” Keith says, ignoring the way Coran tries to pull him from the bed, and the room. Here is the closest he can be to Lance. Or his memory. He doesn’t want to leave. 

“Come on.”  
“I’m fine,” Keith says again, his voice hollow. He is much the same. 

Anger flickers like a light inside him, but it is dying, smothered by the darkness and the cold that prickles at his fingers, the twilight-pain that draws him to sleep and drags him to nightmares. 

The others hadn’t understood. They had dragged him, kicking and screaming to the precipice, to force the truth upon him even when he wasn’t ready. And Keith, kicking and screaming had fought, tooth and nail just to remain present in the hope that Lance would come back to them. If not tomorrow then next week, next month, _god,_ even next year if it just meant that Lance would come back to them… 

But when Keith turned, to return to the moment where hope was his companion and he could see the path where Lance waited at the end of it…  
The path was gone, the rock crumbled until all that surrounded him was the sheer drop of reality. Lance was dead. They all knew that long ago, had accepted it enough to bear the weight and move on. But Keith had not. He’d force fed them hope when they didn’t want it, dragging up all that hurt, all that want that wouldn’t change the outcome.  
Because Lance was already lost to them. 

And Keith had to come to accept that.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Caesura  
 **Location:** Uris’s Atmosphere

The Castle of Lions hung in the atmosphere of _Uris,_ not needing to land on the surface after confirming that the presence of the Solnha was not affirmed here, nor in the system. _Uris_ was one such planet the Castle had flown to, after it being listed as one of many that the Solnha had touched base before. 

“It was for Valion actually,” Kenmare said fondly, standing near the Bridge’s window, looking down to the low sweeping valleys that ran in rivulets between low cresting mountain ranges. He eyes a fix on a point unseen, sharing nostalgia with his brother and Leonel alike. “He fought Gereen here and became Valion.” 

Shiro wants to ask. He wants to hear of the boy that he failed, desperate to hear stories of a boy who had found another family when his own had let him down too many times.  
He wants to hear stories, like Uilt’xen’s tales and those that fall from pale lips when memory serves laughter or amusement, he wants to know of Lance’s time with the pirates. They loved and respected him as more than the Blue Paladin, more than Lance; a defender of Voltron. 

And so, Shiro asks of the fight. Or, duel, as Rayon corrects from his place by the window, staring down at the valley beneath him. 

“Gereen was another _Sault_ in Solnha’s Alliance. He was in command of the _Rexx-Marth,_ and mate to Orvis.” At the Arroyen’s name, Shiro’s face sours, but Rayon explains that Gereen was Pawthen, kin to Eldar but his mind had been turned by the war, and twisted by Orvis’s words the longer she spent by his side. 

“I’m not sure the exacts of the disagreement, but Gereen wouldn’t offer his support to _Genwar’s_ mission without Valion and himself settling their dispute. It was Lance who chose the duel as a way of coming to an agreement,” the Draora grinned. His eyes sparked with pride, and Shiro too, felt the same emotion swell up inside him, even though he hadn’t been there to witness it for himself.  
But if Lance was to declare the duel, then he was sure in his strength. And rightly so, having claimed victory, and the title of Leader in the same instance. 

A strange sort of pain settled on Shiro’s chest; a heaviness he couldn’t shift.  
Because Shiro didn’t know _their_ Lance. He didn’t know of the boy who was strong enough to stand against a Pawthen and come out victorious. He didn’t know of a boy that aligned fighting sanctions under one banner, nor of a boy that had grown strong enough to lead them without so much more than words and a single display of strength to offer his assurance that he should be the one to lead.  
It wasn’t a pleasant feeling. So Shiro ignored it. 

Instead he listened to more stories, from times of Lance being foolish and fearing his new-found family for the sake of him drowning, to amusing them with his own drunkard ways that lead him to many a drunken brawl. _Edegil_ Rayon calls it, and calls Lance a decent contender when he was aboard the _Godolphin._ “Only Uilt’xen and Eldar ever bested him, but then Uilt’xen’s fists are like rock, and Eldar can soak up _Kirkuk_ like a _Krell_ devours rock.”

Leonel talks of the tales he and his ship heard before the _Fellmot_ arrived at _Uris,_ how Lance had impressed his own _Sault_ with his resilience to falling in battle, how the tales of his efforts shaped the boy into a blood-thirsty monster that scared the Galra like whimpering _culm._ And then the amusement at coming face to face with the short, weedy Human that had bested the Pawther before their eyes in a matter of minutes. 

Hunk tells the Solnha of his selflessness, of how he protected Hunk from the beginning of the school years, and even on the battlefield many years later.  
Kenmare shares the story of Lance’s relation to Or’, a Galran kit that had narrowly escaped a death sentence who had been quickly appointed as his younger sister, like they had been kin for years.  
“Yes, that sounds like Lance,” Hunk laughed, his smile soft, eyes shining. 

They fall into melancholic silence, the ever-present numbness seeping into their hearts, the melody of their laughter false and fabricated but without colour and the softness of silk that would give them comfort during their time of mourning. 

Hunk doesn’t want to think he’s mourning his best friend. 

Shiro doesn’t want to think he’s mourning a boy that looked up to him as a hero. 

Pidge doesn’t want to think they are mourning the loss of another Brother to the monster of war. 

Keith doesn’t mourn. Not yet. Not while he is still grasping at the truth that Lance is dead. 

Allura doesn’t want to believe she is mourning. She can’t. She’s not strong enough to get back up if she did. 

Coran has already mourned the loss of Lance. Now, it is for him to be there to support the team. He is to remain stead-fast in the tide of emotion to come, keeping the children in line with their needs. He urges them to eat when they’re hungry. He leads them to bed when they’re tired and he pushes them to one another when the sadness rears its ugly head. 

One day they will be strong again. For Lance they will free the universe from the Empire’s control.  
Until then, they are allowed to feel.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Nix  
 **Location:** Karta XI

 _Nix_ turned out to be a dead end.  
_Jastra_ and _Vesper_ too. 

No matter which planet or system the Solnha provide the name of, any signs of their fellow raiders are long since gone, as are they. Pidge grows increasingly frustrated, and has been ever since the knowledge of the Solnha’s communication system not yet alerting them to incoming and outgoing signals. 

The fear of the Solnha having been defeated wasn’t one that the crew entertained, having already uncovered the knowledge from the Galra that they were expecting another attack from the rogue fleet. The understanding that they had gone into hiding was easy to accept with the understanding that their leader— that Lance had been slain meant that they were in need of new leadership and time to order and heal from the _Genwar_ skirmish.  
But it wasn’t something that was welcomed by the team, even with its necessity, leaving them with only the means of tearing across the Galaxy, asking of them and hoping to come across signs that they hadn’t given up the fight and disbanded. 

The days that followed remained uneasy and tense, with no change in their predicament.  
The Solnha became temporary residents of the castle, each claiming a room in the lower residential quarter. It wasn’t like the castle didn’t have enough space to house them, and there was plenty of food for the four guests as the Castle space-hopped from one planet to another, trying to find signs of the Solnha Pirates. But they had practically vanished since the failure at _Genwar._

No matter how many Galra ships the Paladins invaded, there were no more logs of space battles or sightings of the Alliance, leaving some to feat that it was true that their part in the war had come to an end with the loss of Valion. But the others remained hopeful, deeming that the Alliance was simply regrouping after such a large mission. 

A week passed. 

Shiro and Allura spent many days with the twins, fighting on the training deck or sat idly in the control room; their main focus of discussion the Solnha’s movement and Lance’s contribution to the war.  
Pidge had befriended Uilt’xen, prodding their mechanical mindedness out of curiosity. She steered clear of anything _‘Lance’_ not wanting to hear of a boy she didn’t know. Hunk was very different, sharing his own stories with the Daratrine and Vhoadan as they passed the time between waiting and travelling. 

Coran kept himself busy with maintaining the castle, and although the halls were spotless, the engines running perfectly and nothing to be done, one could always find him bothering with chores, cleaning, humming to himself as he wandered up and down the halls.  
No one ever saw him cry, but if he attended dinner with red eyes and puffy cheeks, _who were they to mention it?_

Keith was hardly ever around. They’d see him once a day, dinner or breakfast, but never both. He never said a word; taking his grief and internalising it, alienating himself as he took Red out day in and day out, venturing far to find the pirates.  
His mission to find Lance had been cruelly cut short, and now he needed another focus. Taking on Galra was a part of that, and if he happened upon any, he’d take them out with a harsh ruthlessness not before seen that even Red feared speaking in his mind when the anger consumed him.  
She was there for him though, and tried to help him as the grief of a loss of love warped into something ugly and _painful._

Another week passed and the grief was no less easy to carry.  
And still, no sign of the Solnha.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Nairn  
 **Location:** Space

It was morning.  
Or, at least it was morning enough for all of the Paladins and the Pirates to be awake at the same time.  
They were gathered in the Bridge, having congregated there after a skirmish with a rogue Galran patrol. The fight was unexpected; the act of two paths crossing and scramble to attack before the other. It wasn’t a great fete, the clash of ships over before it could really begin. Tried and tested, the Paladins were quick to strike with fury, without pity.  
The pirates were ruthless on their part, with the Draora a part of the boarding party, while Leonel and Uilt’xen remained behind to man the guns, with exceptional skill and sure-fire aim.  
Yet the team were not pleased with the results. 

Or, yes, they were. But then, at the same time, they were not.  
It was confusing and all together infuriating. 

Because Allura had done remarkably well.  
And that wasn’t a bad thing, _it really wasn’t,_ they were proud for her and told her as such as she took out half a legion with Blue. Precise. Ruthless.  
The Princess’s bond with Blue was strong and would continue to strengthen as they continued to fight beside one another. The truth of her position was solidified with the reality of Lance’s passing. 

It was clear to all of them that Allura would be able to form Voltron with the team; something no situation had called upon as of yet. But when that time came, they would succeed.  
It was something they had long-since wished for, and wished for not, in equal unbalanced measure. But now, there was no more un-want. There was no reason for Allura to hold herself back anymore. She was filling heavy shoes, but she had to try. And the team had to accept her. 

With the debriefing of the last fight over and done with, everyone stood in silence. No one had made the effort to leave the Bridge, nor break the heavy silence that fell upon them. Allura has said it once, that she was capable to be Lance’s temporary stand-in and no one disputed that. But now that the status of _“temporary”_ had become _“permanent.”_

It was something they should have considered long ago.  
Even with their continued hope of Lance being alive and well, there had been no guarantee that he would’ve returned to fight alongside them once more.  
But, naively, they thought that surely, _he would._  
They were his family, his only link to earth.

That had been Keith’s hope at least. A hope now forgotten as he stood staring out the window to space, side by side with Rayon. Not a word was shared between them, but neither tension. There hasn’t been forgiveness, or any sort of amendment between them, but there is a mutual calm for now. They will fight the common enemy side by side, but when all is said and done, they can return to hating one another.  
Until then, they will hold onto fragile peace.

Side by side the two of them watch the stars. Perhaps they were looking out in the direction of where the Solnha waited. Where once he hoped that Lance had waited for the team to find him, but he had never been sure.  
None of them had known, and it had been painful. 

Knowing that Lance hadn’t wanted to return was even worse. 

_Knowing that Lance was dead…_

Coran sipped at a small beverage he and Hunk had made for those gathered, yet he remained to be the only one. Everyone else left theirs untouched.  
Allura held hers limply in her hands, mind a thousand stars away, staring blankly at her reflection in the clear caramel liquid reflecting back, her mind filled with jokes and silly little things Lance might’ve once say after the mission. What he might’ve said to alleviate this tension. What he would have said to her, after seeing her pilot Blue in battle. _Would he have been proud?_  
Or would he have been hurt? Because she upheld her promise to the team, replaced Lance and hasn’t let them down. Not like Lance thought he had. 

Maybe, just maybe, he would’ve been grateful, not having to worry about being with the team, finally free to do as he pleased. But then, Blue’s bond with Lance had always been strong, and Allura couldn’t push the boy aside in her mind as she longed for her missing cub. 

Blue didn’t understand the idea of death. Even as Allura tried to explain, much like she would to a child that Lance was gone, and he wouldn’t be coming back…  
Allura couldn’t accept it in her heart. There was no reason Blue couldn’t feel the tiniest shred of hope, and chose to hold onto that and nothing else.  
She just needed time. They all needed time. 

Only Pidge was making noise as they thumbed through the frequencies, cross-legged on the Black Paladin’s chair, boots discarded at their feet. They had barely allowed themselves time to shower and unequip the upper parts of their armour before returning to their usual position and continue trying to discern the pattern that the Solnha wove as they flew through the stars.  
It was infuriating. They were there, on their screen, somewhere where the dots blinked teasingly but none would give up their secrets and just _tell them._  
The Solnha were finally broadcasting again, using old frequencies and the same patterns of movement, but Pidge hadn’t been able to decipher it before, and there was less luck this time than before. 

Uilt’xen tried to help, Leonel too. Their hearts were in the right place, but their minds were not and it was hard enough for them to remained focused on the task at hand, let alone understand it. But Pidge appreciated their efforts. In their own way. 

“Oh, for fucks sake,” the young Gremlin cursed in anger, dropping their head, hands in their hair, bushels gripped in tight fists that pulled for deliberate self-inflicted pain. Everyone turned at the youngest’s cry of rage, yet no one called them out upon their choice of words. Nor did they offer their own in comfort.

Pidge wasn’t done. “I don’t get it. And I don’t understand _why I don’t get it._ There’re too many damn signals, changing, but every time the Solnha try and cover their tracks by swapping up the frequencies they transmit on, no one has ever altered my code. That’s why I know the frequency changes and not the entire system, because I still get relayed transmissions.” They sigh into their hands, voice dropping down to a grumble. Uilt’xen and Leonel share looks, but Pidge’s words make as much sense to them as the numbers floating on the screen.  
“It’s meant to make sense. It’s meant to be simple. If they’ve figured out that I hacked into their system, they’d change it immediately, or at least throw a bug in it so it tampers with the systems on our end. But no, these guys are too stupid.”

Hunk, the closest to the youngest Paladin, pats their shoulder. “Pidge, calm down. You’ll figure it out, you always do. If you need help, just ask.” He smiled. Pidge smiled back. “Team Punk?”  
“’til the end.” They bumped knuckles, before Pidge shuffled over so Hunk could perch on the arm of the seat. The pirates moved away, Uilt’xen coming to curl up in a blue hued chair, Kenmare wrapping his arms around her.

The Vhoadan joined Keith and Rayon by the window, lending an ear to Pidge’s low words. They were pointing at a screen that held a string of numbers in varying frequencies. “Are these the feeds the Solnha are using at the moment?”  
“Old ones. I’ve got the castle scanning for them too, just in case they swap back to any previous ones. But instead, they add to what they’ve already got. Last week I was only looking for four. Yesterday it was seven. Today I’ve got over twenty different programmes tracking the frequencies. It’s like I’ve got a hundred needles and no hay stack.”  
“You think they’re duds? To throw you off, rather than play with your code?” Pidge shook their head. “No, there’s no point. If they wanted to hide completely, they’d strip the code from their system and be on their merry way. The complexity of jumbling their frequencies isn’t to distract, it’s to keep them from being found.” 

“But not by us,” they added, when Hunk made to speak. “I don’t think they know I hacked them.” A thought that is affirmed by Rayon, who tells them no news reached his ears that Voltron were anywhere on their radar. Or, they were led to believe as such when he and his brother heard them come up in conversation. Instead, according to Pidge, what the Solnha were doing was an old way of covering tracks before they could leave them.

_“Potterwatch?”_  
“Potterwatch.” 

Keith and Shiro watched from their place across the room, equally wishing to be of some use, but knowing the two geniuses didn’t need them to hold them back. The data streams meant as much to them as did Altean text. Which, wasn’t much. 

“Do you think he knew? And that’s why it was left?”  
“Huh?” Keith misses the main question in Shiro’s words, a little caught in his mind, not quite on the same page as the Black Paladin. “Lance. Do you think he knew that we were trying to track the ships, and instead of reaching back, he had them keep the code instead of purging it? Maybe they were set as decoys, just for the sake of keeping us away.  
“Don’t be stupid,” Keith began, but whatever argument he had voiced a thousand times would do nothing to alter Shiro’s view. “We both know by now he didn’t want to come back to us. 

“That also meant that he didn’t want us to find him.” 

A spike of anger rose in the boy, but before he could identify it, Rayon placed a hand on his shoulder, an anchor to the moment before anger could take his mind and twist his words to hurt his family all over again. “Valion didn’t know of you tracking him. His main focus was training the crew, running missions and keeping the _Saults_ happy. I don’t think Voltron was ever a topic of conversation for him.”

Although the words are meant to be comforting, they aren’t. Not really.  
It just means, to Lance, he had finished with them for good. And they were fools for not understanding that, when there was no attempt from the boy to mend the bridges that had been burnt long ago.

_“I just don’t get it!”_

Pidge’s outburst saved Keith from anything more the Draora might have wanted to say, watching as the Green Paladin jumped from their chair, throwing one of their discarded shoes at the holo-screen. It passed straight through, landing spitefully on the far side of the bridge near where Uilt’xen and Kenmare were cuddling together.  
The noise of the Paladin’s tantrum pulled Allura and Coran out from their thought bubbles, shocked at the unexpected sound, and the sight of Pidge hurling their other shoe at the window, like it would do something more than bounce off pathetically. 

“Need my shoe too?” Shiro offered, along with a smile. Pidge glared. Then dropped it.  
They slumped to the floor, arms curling around their knees. “No, no. I just need to clear my head for a moment.”  
“Then explain it to me,” their leader said, stepping away from Keith and the pirates. The boy followed Shiro’s movements, as did everyone else as he crossed the room, kneeling to sit opposite Pidge. “You understand far more than me, so go back to the basics. Tell me everything, _slowly,_ and you might just be able to figure it out. Remember what your dad called it, the Rubber Duck protocol.”  
It made sense really. Because even though Pidge, Hunk and Coran had the knowhow on reading the code and finding the answer, if they explained it to the others, it might just make it obvious _where_ they had to look.

Allura shuffled closer to where Pidge and Shiro sat. Hunk settled himself in the chair, as Coran decided to fetch another round of warm milk and sweet-bean, with Leonel offering to help him. The two in Lance’s chair remained as they were, as did Rayon and Keith, staying by the window, watching on from a distance as Pidge started to explain their code, answering carefully thought questions from the rest of the team. They were all doing their part, even Hunk, who had been ready to give up and leave the questions unanswered. 

Keith couldn’t. He felt that was all life offered him: _questions._  
Why did his mother leave him? Why did his Father have to die? Why could no one understand he wanted to be alone? Why is that officer bothering with the likes of him? Why wouldn’t they tell him what happened to Shiro? What was this thing he found, this Lion? Why is Shiro here, why is Lance with him, _what’s going on?_

One question after another after another, no pause between to give anyone a chance to answer them for him. And still, more questions came. _Why did Lance leave? Why didn’t he speak up? Who was the one that gave him that final push? Was there anything Keith could’ve done to change it? Why was everyone losing hope? Why had Hunk given up? Was it really only Keith who believed they’d see Lance again? Was Lance really dead, or was he alive, still waiting, still hoping …_

Too many questions, and none to be answered until Keith voiced them himself. But as much as Keith feared not knowing, he feared the truth too. What if wasn’t what he wanted it to be? What if it was worse than what he had feared? What if this was all for naught and Lance truly was gone; long-since dead with no way to return home, leaving the team nothing to give his family when they apologised for abandoning him….

“… and there’s no way they could miss your piggy-back code?” Uilt’xen asked. She and Kenmare had moved now, coming to sit cross-legged opposite the Green Paladin. Her voice carried in the quiet as Pidge and Hunk thought through the problems out loud. “Well, yeah, there is a way to miss it, but you’d have to be really stupid to notice a new programme and just shrug it off. And with the sophistication of their jamming signal, I know that whoever is in charge of your communication lines isn’t exactly stupid, nor would they leave extra code floating on their frequencies.”  
“What if you had managed to hide it really well—”  
“A hack would work like that, but what Pidge did was effectively attaching a bug to their stream feed. It would stick out like a sore thumb, even if they weren’t looking for it.” 

Pidge sighed, palming their eyes under their glasses. “With the time I was given, and the fact I had to rush because L-Lance went on ahead didn’t give me much room for to mod the codes I’ve already used.” No one focused on the way Pidge stumbled on his name, neither they, as the forged ahead, the speed of their words increasing, like Pidge _doesn’t_ want anyone to pick up on it.  
“I didn’t have time to do a complete overhaul on the details, but I managed to sync the return-signal feed, so that every time they transmit a signal, I’d get an instant hit on their location.”

“So then, the problem you have is that you now have too many frequencies showing up in different locations?”  
“They’re in different systems, different planets, transmitting within minutes of one another, like their jumping space,” the Green Paladin grumbled, hands in their lap, trying to avoid the shame of failing the team. _They couldn’t find the Solnha, just like how they couldn’t find Lance in time._

“I didn’t think to track the pirate’s signal, or the location of their out-going message, so we only ever have one point of contact. Problem is, that is constantly changing.” _Too much, too soon._  
Just as the Solnha had back when they first encountered them. When the Solnha vanished, and within a Dobosh of silence, they had managed to fly to Nix. Impossible by all standards, except for the Castle of Lions, whose hyperjump capabilities made such travel feasible.  
_‘How’_ was the question. _‘Where,’_ and _‘when next’_ followed, as well as the question of Lance being among them. It hadn’t been completely confirmed, even with their mission with the Marmora, but with the pirates, they had learnt that Lance and Valion was one and the same. He had been living another life, free of the burdens the team unknowingly forced upon him. Lance had been living, thriving, _leading the Solnha—_

“Do you know which ship you hacked?” Kenmare asks, “but it doesn’t matter _which_ ship it is,” Pidge explains, “because the ship sends out so many signals, the point is to find the _real_ signal in all the decoys.” 

“So, the plan is just to pull a signal at random, and follow it in hopes that there is a Pirate Ship at the end of it?” Uilt’xen asks, not quite sure if Ygrainne had ever set up a system that sent out multiple feeds during one broadcast. But then, Uilt’xen was a Gunner and a Mechanic. Ygrainne was the best on the _Godolphin_ for working with transmissions, as much as the Thorx of the rest of the crews were in charge of their communication lines.  
If only a conversation about the inner workings of the ship’s communication lines had come up over a drink of _Kirkuk._ At least once. 

Picking a feed at random was their only option, as infuriating as it was. Pidge grumbled about wasting time already, staring over their shoulder, up at the screen, their temple pulsing with frustration. _Why couldn’t it be simpler?_

“Hey Pidge, what’s this here?” Keith and Rayon had come to join them now, but rather than sitting on the floor like the rest of the rag-tag team of Voltron and Solnha, both the Red Paladin and Draora stood back. Keith isn’t watching the team. He was staring at the screen and the unsolved puzzle that had once left the trail to Lance.  
“That? It’s the past streams and their locations.” Keith stared at the co-ordinates and the times of transmission, ignoring the other numbers. “They’re in groups of two, at least, or three sometimes.”  
“Yeah, I know. But the co-ordinates show them to always be in separate systems. It’s the before jump and after.” 

Pidge is beside him now, Hunk and Shiro pulling themselves up off the floor so they can see too. It doesn’t make sense to them, but Allura’s keen eye spots the pattern that Keith was starting to figure out. “There though, look. Five separate co-ordinates, transmitting one after the other.”  
Pidge stared. “An anomaly in the pattern.”  
“Not an anomaly, the answer,” Hunk said, a smile pressing to his lips. “Pidge, they’re not duds.”  
“Huh?” They all looked to the Yellow Paladin, the lilt of _something_ in his voice ensnaring their focus. Coran’s and Leonel’s too as the pair re-entered the Bridge, abandoning the tray of drinks they had been carrying for the choice of joining the others around the module, aware of the flicker of light in the darkness. 

“What is it? What have you found?” But the Vhoadan’s question goes unanswered as Pidge looks to where Hunk was pointing, their frown smoothing and their eyes widened as they looked, eyes flicking from one number to another, to the map, the colours and the trail they left….  
“No way,” they mumbled, dropping into the chair, fingers already on the module’s keys, not even bothering to look down at what they were doing. 

Everyone felt the shift in the air; the change from hopelessness to hopefulness.  
“No fucking way,” Pidge repeated, voice getting louder as a snowstorm of emotions flurried from their mouth in bright, beautiful cuss words. “You fucking…. _oh, thank you, you beautiful pieces of shit!”_

“That’s why it was the same! That’s why they all kept changing frequencies but the coding was always kept the _fucking same.”_  
They had stood from their chair now, eyes glued to the screens as they shifted places, the map taking spotlight in the centre, the frequency signals no longer ordered in chronological order, but grouped and colour coded in sequencing patterns to follow trails, linking the ghost-marks with pathways of colour. 

The hope of the youngest fuelled the rest into standing, sharing half-smiles and wide, expectant eyes. 

“Pidge what is it? What do you see?”  
Shiro couldn’t see it, he didn’t understand the way their brain worked, how everything was fading around them, no longer rivers of colours and mountains of data, but two simple categories of markers. Black and White. No more red, no more colour, just beautiful black and white and the solution to the puzzle that plagued them for too long. 

Pidge ignored the ice in their heart, the silent whisper of _it’s too late for him._  
It was too late for Lance, but that didn’t mean they were just going to give up on the universe, on the war. 

Pidge let out a triumphant cry, Coran, Kenmare and Hunk getting caught up in their excitement as they waited, with baited breath and wide smiles. “There, right there!” the youngest yelled, jumping up and pointing at the screen like a child choosing their flavour of ice cream. “It wasn’t a case of “ _one real, the rest fake,”_ like I stupidly _assumed_ it would be. I thought too much of these damn Solnha, _sorry guys,_ thinking the trojan was known and they were just throwing transmissions out left right and centre to—”  
“Pidge, you’ve earned bragging rights, but please save them,” Shiro said, out of breath as if he had just run from the Lion’s hangar. despite the battle ending long ago. Adrenaline pumped in his veins from the overwhelming hope that maybe…. _That maybe…_

“The reason all the signals transmitted have the hack is because I hijacked their jamming signal. They were relaying it on an open frequency so they’d definitely be able to hit us, but they didn’t consider the fact that doing so enabled me to integrate the trojan across all their frequencies.” They turn to the team, smiles to confusion, because they still don’t get it. _“Oh, for the love of Merlin’s socks!_ Don’t you see? _All_ their frequencies. Because it’s not just one damn ship I linked with, but all of them! I haven’t been tracking just the yellow ship we fought with. I’ve been tracking the entire ship simultaneously without even knowing!”

_Oh, fuck it was obvious!_ Because in that damned fake rescue mission, there wasn’t just one damn pirate ship but two! Why didn’t they realise sooner? The answer was staring at them, plain as day!

“So, it’s just a matter of finding the right ship?”  
Pidge turned back to the screen, a sharp shake of the head. “It doesn’t matter what ship. They’re all Solnha. They’ll be able to get a transmission to the main alliance and we’ll be able to—”

But before Pidge could finish, a red light flashed on their holo-display. More feeds poured in simultaneously, all open transmissions that demanded attention as they filled the screen.  
Without needed encouragement, Pidge opened one. It warped into a video box, the main on the screen taken up by the image of a tall, smooth faced alien.  
Kenmare gasped from behind, eyes turning to him, questions on their lips. But Kenmare and the other Solnha paid Voltron no mind as they stared up at the screen, eyes fixed on the worry painted on their crewmates’ face. Ygrainne looked terrified.  
Around her, red lights blared, the screen shaking, feeding cutting out for a moment until the audio kicked in and they could hear her speaking: 

_[—alliance are to return to Caldara. I repeat. All ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara.]_

_[The Galra are here.]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, just a quick note but I'm most likely going to slow down with uploads, back to twice a week, or maybe once a week ( _I don't want to, it's just life won't stop pestering me_ ).  
>  It's just, Christmas is usually a busy time for me, and I'll be at a different address for the duration of the holidays ( _happens every year, wouldn't change it for the world but that house is hectic AF_ ). 
> 
> I'm just giving you guys a heads up, because I don't want to leave it two or three weeks until I upload in the new year or something crappy like that, so I'm sort of pacing myself. 
> 
> With that said, I hope you enjoyed _this_ chapter.
> 
> There won't be an upload on Friday. Instead, Chapter #39 is scheduled for Monday 17th.


	39. A Want To Heal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All pain will heal over time. Even the loss of those precious to him.

**System:** _Unknown_   
**Location:** _Unknown_

It’s dark.   
And cold. 

It’s dark and it’s cold and silent. 

He doesn’t like the silence. It unnerves him. Scares him even. 

But the dark is entirely differently and even more terrifying.  
He cannot see further than the reach of his own arm that grasps out at the _nothing_ that fills the space around him. He thinks that is what it is. _Nothing._

Perhaps even, he’s in space, floating aimlessly between stars and planets, nothing but light passing between this realm and the next.   
But no, he’s not in space. He’s not cold. This that surrounds him isn’t the freezing of space, the ice that clings to his skin, that burns his blood into stone. 

There’s weight around him, weight on his back and under his feet. _Gravity._  
It may be artificial, he thinks, his mind searching the dark for a sign of familiarity, anything other than the throb of his skull that is knocking on his mind, telling him he’s in pain. 

There is reality to his being. 

_Lance isn’t lost to the stars._

The weight grows around him, pulling him down. There is burning. Heat in the absence of cold.   
Lance doesn’t want that, recoiling away from the hardness of his back, back towards the emptiness of darkness. He’s not dead, he knows that. Pain isn’t there when you’re dead. He can breathe fine, but moving is the problem. He’s trapped in the darkness, although he is strangely comfortable with that. Something tells him it’s the pain in his left arm that numbs his mind to the fear of being trapped. Maybe it numbs his mind to the pain of his body, but he can’t feel anything other than the encroaching heaviness. 

Is it heaviness? Or is it pain?

Both. Neither. One or the other.   
Lance can’t make sense of it. He tries to turn, searching for anything other than darkness. He isn’t sure if his body turns or not, because all there is, is darkness around him. Eternal night. Endless black that holds nothing but cold and the absence of existence. 

But no. There, _right there._

A crack in the darkness.   
The light there is dim. Faintly a red and blue hue that seeps into his space until the black gives’ way to a gentle purple that surrounds the nothingness in front of him. Shapes begin to push through the hues. Long, rectangular shapes that hold solidity to them. Some are cold under his palms, smooth and wet like melting ice. Others are hot and fragmented, but they are real, and _he_ is real. 

The darkness doesn’t exist anymore. 

_“Lance? Lance!”_

Someone is calling his name. It’s a voice he vaguely recognises. _Maybe._  
But the name is his, he knows for sure, and the one that calls out is looking for him. “I’m here,” he calls into the shapes of purple, listening to the echo as his voice calls back to him. _“I’m here.”_  
He is here. It doesn’t matter where here is, Lance is apart of it, waiting for those that call out to him, to find him and take him from this endless purple. 

He leans up to the light, reaching out a hand. Cold forces him to withdraw. The heat of the sun pulls a cry from his lips as he cradles his hand to his chest, wincing from the burn of his palm and the crescendo of his voice and theirs, as it grows, louder and louder, echoing all around until purple is sound, and shapes are noise and—

Suddenly, the light is brighter. 

It’s blinding, bright in his face and Lance turns his head, eyes hidden under burnt hands. He’s blinking away tears from the sudden transition, trying to ignore Anadón’s laughter in the back of his mind. 

_Anadón? Anadón was here?_

_“Come out, come out, little Human,”_ another voice says. It isn’t warm like the other.   
This is cold and chilling. It drags nails up Lance’s spine and fills his head with pressure. It’s like being bound with the chains of an anchor and dropped to the depths of the sea. He can’t breathe. All around him is water, the endless expanse of the ocean. He loved it once.   
But not now, when it steals the breath in his lungs and the screams that are nothing but trailing bubbles as he is pulled deeper and deeper into Anadón’s dark heart. 

_{Weak, weak, weak. You’ve always been weak Lance. I’ve known all along.}_

It isn’t Anadón. It can’t be him.   
Because Lance killed Anadón, destroyed him, and destroyed everything the poison-twisted creature stood for, when they shared body and mind and soul.

_{You do not have a soul Lance. You’re void. You’re no one. You are nothing.}_

But when he looks up to the crack, when he lets his vision settle and the light shifts into more colours than lavender and violet and sangria and magenta—

Lance recoils from the hand that reaches for him. At first, it was just a mess of movement, but as it gets closer, defining features cover the hand of frost-touched scales, littered in wounds and cuts, scars and sharp nails that catch at his skin and draw blood. 

_“No,”_ Lance says, as if he can command the hand not to touch him. But the hand isn’t his to control, and Lance feels the claws dig deep into flesh, egged on by his cries, by the tears that prickle Lance’s eyes when strength wraps around his body and lifts him from the crevice of shapes and noise. It was made from debris of broken things, cocooning Lance, who is pulled from the nest in which he felt comfortable, to bright light and pain as the hand that holds him squeezes in dark laughter. 

_“At last. I’ve been looking for you, little Human.”_

Lance cries out at the pain in his chest. He can’t _breathe_ but the hand that holds him just squeezes tighter when he squirms in his hold. The pain in his left arm twinges oddly, a familiar something tugging in his head space, but Lance can’t focus as the figure that holds him comes into focus, and suddenly he freezes. 

“O-Ovule?”  
The bite of his left shoulder is ice in his veins. 

_“So glad you haven’t forgotten me,”_ Ovule laughs, lifting Lance higher. Another hand comes to his face, a nail pulling lightly on Lance’s lips as the point of Ovule’s claw outlines lips and chin. _“Because I haven’t forgotten you. Not for a second.”_

They were surrounded by purple. Purple walls, purple floors, purple soldiers that held guns, trained on Valion, helpless in the Arroyo’s grasp. _“You didn’t think you could escape me, did you,”_ the brute crooned, his tongue flittering between his teeth, tasting the air.

Lance squirms, his mind trying to catch up. But the light above him blinds him and he turns his head, focus returning on the shadows of the base. He wished he hadn’t looked. 

Uilt’xen is closest. Her armour has been ripped off her broken body, chest plate warped as a spear impales her chest. Her eyes are open, but they are unseeing. Glassy, unfocused. The light of her life has long since left her.   
Kenmare lays beside her, a hand reaching out to cup her face. She doesn’t see him. She can’t hear his cries as he calls her name, begging for her to wake. But Lance can hear, and he wishes he can’t. Not when Kenmare turns his eyes upon Lance, bright with electricity, the moonblind gaze once white, now stormy grey. 

_“You did this,”_ he spat, blood drippling from the corner of pale lips. _“You killed her. You killed my brother. You’ve killed all of us.”_

A boot comes from behind. Dark and heavy.   
Lance’s throat is tight. It is too much for him to try and call out in warning when the boot lifts and falls.

Kenmare’s neck snaps easier than a twig. 

_“Va… Va- ion…”_ Rayon calls out for him, just beyond the bodies of brother and sister, who dissolve like sand blown away in the wind. He calls out in vain, an arm raised to the boy still trapped in Ovule’s grip. “Rayon! Hold on!” 

_“Valion,”_ comes another voice and Lance can see Leonel. His barbs are either broken or missing. Blood oozes like black sludge from the gaping wounds across his back. 

Gun are pressed into the back of both their heads, but neither pay heed, trying to stand. The sentry slams the butt of his gun into Leonel’s head, forcing him to bid the law of gravity. They both have to, but still they plea for Valion to save them, the hope in their eyes the spark that lights the fire in Lance’s gut. He squirms anew, twisting against the claws that bury deep into flesh, blood and bone.   
He doesn’t care that he’s bleeding. He has to save his family. He has to save them. 

“Rayon, Leonel I’m coming!”

But what can he do when the gun’s take aim, lights flash and there are only corpses left the in the encroaching darkness? 

_“NO!”_

Ovule threw his head back in laughter. Anadón laughs with him, the malice all that Lance can hear as his vision swims and fades. The bodies are gone from his sight, but they’ll never be gone from his mind. 

_“They’re dead, little Human. You can’t help them as much as you can help yourself.”_  
And Ovule moves hand from hair to throat, the slick of his tongue outlining Lance’s mouth, probing for entry. It’s vile, its gross and Lance has no energy to fight, but fight he will. Because he won’t bow to Ovule. He won’t ever let the _culm_ win. Even if he lost his body. Even if he lost his mind. He wouldn’t allow the bastard to take the battle. 

But there is not a battle to fight as Ovule takes that taste and let’s that satisfy him. He doesn’t want the boy kicking and screaming. He’ll take his corpse if he can do what he wants with it.

And so, he squeezes his fist. 

Ovule is crushing him, choking him, with his hand around Lance’s throat.   
Lance, who can barely breathe, who twists and turns in the grasp that holds firm, trying desperately to free himself, to reach his family because they can’t be dead, they can’t be. There is still time to save them. He only needs a moment, and he can save them—

_No, no, no!_

“—ce!” 

_Let me save them! Let me—_

“—ance!”

_I have to save them!_

“Lance!” 

Lance threw his body backwards, away from the light and the heat and the strength that grips him tight. He wrenches his body free from the confinement of the blankets, the soft touch of fur on his skin, to the cold cool air of unfamiliarity around him. But better here than that hell-pit with the Arroyo. 

The tubes that were attached to the boy’s left arm, feeding him nutrients straight into his veins, are sharply tugged from their sitting. Blood and purple liquid splatter onto the sheets, pooling upon the floor. Lance stares down at it, feeling the roll of emptiness in his gut. His entire body convulses with the feeling. 

A touch behind him is unpleasant, too much too soon and he pulls away, focusing only on the dryness of his throat, the watering of his eyes; the echoing splatter as his vomit joins the emptying nutrient bag on the med-bays floor, choking as he’s torn between crying out, screaming in pain, and begging for Ovule’s mercy.   
But he can’t hear Ovule’s laughter anymore, he can’t hear Anadón or the twisted screams as his family was killed before his eyes—

“Lance, open your eyes! Look at me!” There are more arms on him, strong arms that pull at his shoulders, back towards the sweat-damp sheets of the infirmary bed, the velvet-fur touch of gentle fingers that Lance can feel but can’t make sense of as his nightmares haunts him still, in the moment that he is both asleep and awake. 

_Ovule,_ Lance thinks and he can’t focus more than the fight against that hand that catches his chin. “It’s just me,” but no sooner are the words spoken, are they silenced. Lance feels his body move, practised instincts acting where brain cannot.   
There is a body beneath him pressed down to the soft of the bed under his own sweat-slick skin, his mouth dry and raspy as he pants heavily, pushing, not quite all of his weight, but enough that the needle that had been imbedded in his arm is now dangerously close to the windpipe of the blue creature staring up at him.   
Lance snarls through his dream-haze, the vision flickering between comforting blue, fearful white and the teasing black of Anadón’s fur. 

_{You can’t kill me Lance. I will always be a part of you.}_

“No,” Lance hissed, pressing down when Anadón pushed back. He doesn’t plunge the needle in. Not when his mind catches on fur under his fingers, not feathers. He tries to blink away the confusion, watching his vision shift, the black fading too much to make sense until words push past the haze and he can hear a voice, low and steady, talking to him. 

“It’s me. Come on, focus.” 

Lance keeps the needle steady – not digging into flesh but not drawn back either. He can feel his hands shaking, the trembling too much and he can’t hold on. The needle falls from his grip, but the stranger beneath him still doesn’t move. 

“Arenphine, it’s me. It’s Eldar.”   
And _oh, it is._

Lance can see him, see the pale and powerful blue from behind the mirrored glaze of wet eyes. Eldar’s eyes tear too, hating to see the pain his lover feels when he wakes like this, still caught in the confines of _Genwar’s_ destruction.   
“It’s just a dream, love. Nothing more than a nightmare.” 

“Eldar, El, I’m sorry,” Lance breathes, blinking slowly as the light dulls around him, the sharpness of fear washed away as Lance drinks in the sight of Eldar beneath him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”   
And Eldar holds onto him as Lance continues to tremble, wrapping his arms around the boy that slowly comes back to reality in waves that rock him back and forth, his body swaying in a sickening sort of way. 

“I thought… I thought I was back there,” he breathes, cold, clammy hands catching Eldar’s face. His eyes are still unfocused, still caught in that moonblind daze, his pupils blown wide as he drinks and drinks the reality before him. 

_“Is this a dream?”_ Lance asks, and it sounds like it costs him to ask it, not quite ready to throw himself in his lover’s arms. Because he can’t. Not yet.   
Like so many times when he has woken, Lance can’t accept the truth until Eldar leans in, gentle, his fingers tracing the line of tears on Lance’s cheek. “No Lance. This is not a dream.” 

And with that, Lance returns himself to his lover’s arms, wanting nothing but to remain there forever. He utters endless streams of apologies, all of which are not taken, with Eldar’s insistence that they aren’t needed. This isn’t the first time Lance had lost himself to nightmares, and they both know it won’t be the last. But Lance hoped at least it would be easier.   
If not for him, then at least for Eldar who sits by his side every night, trying to keep the night-terrors away. And when Lance starts screaming, lost inside his own mind, it is Eldar who tries to wake him, who is the one who faces Lance’s fury and rage and tear-stained desperation, wishing for it all to have been a nightmare, that his family wasn’t lost—

“I’m sorry,” he says again. Fruitless. But enough for Eldar to kiss along his brow, the motion pulled into a soft, gentle laughter. “You have nothing to apologise for, my love. You never have.” 

Eldar continues to hush him, holding him close as he rocks him. His voice remains soft, his deep baritone a sweet gentle melody that continues to speak, words and tales of the mundane floating, just outside the dome of Lance’s understanding. Some words make sense, standing out in the dissonance of the soft, feathery world of Eldar’s arms. 

_Trauma. Patience. Roamer._

They make sense, oddly enough. The words prompt Lance to focus outside of his bubble, and slowly, he is able to pull the trickle of her voice apart from the sounds of machinery and beeping. He blinks back the white and blue, letting depth form in his understanding, as the familiar surrounding of the _Godolphin’s_ infirmary comes into view. 

Lance and Eldar are tangled together on a cot bed that has been seen too many times. Of course, it’s not the first time, having woken up yesterday in the much the same position, yet it was Tho’xemae who had a scalpel held over his eye, before Lance let reality fade into his brain and push out the nightmare. 

The first time was the worst. Viridall, who had been the first to respond to Lance’s gut-wrenching screams felt the full force of Lance’s primal defence. The wound in his thigh was now healed of course, but the stabbing off an almost blunt medical instrument had been less than pleasant for him.   
After such, Eldar had made it abundantly clear that Lance wasn’t to be approached alone, should his untested strength deal significant damage that couldn’t be healed with a shot of _Eleiryian_ and a night under Tho’xemae’s watch. 

For days afterward, Lance was in an out of consciousness as he continued to recovered. Each time he wakes, it is in escape from nightmares that leaves him a panicked mess. He hates it.   
Hates himself for his weakness. 

Lance is meant to be Valion. He’s meant to stand as the face of the Solnha Alliance, but how can he be that when every time he falls asleep, he gets nightmares, and every time he wakes, he’s a sobbing, terrified mess that can’t get it in his head that he’s not a prisoner of the Galra. Why can’t he seem to remember that Eldar had been there to save him, that he dropped the bombs and dropped himself into the mess of the crumbling, destroyed mess of the base, just to save his Arenphine.   
But Eldar could not venture further into the rubble. Not when the Djalg followed from the firefight above, and the swarms of drones that poured from the base like the plague-infested _bemis_ they were.   
The horde pushed in, and pushed Eldar in his team out, Valion in tow. But the battle demanded sacrifice, and they had no choice but to leave the other three behind. 

Lance couldn’t accept they were gone. They were the main source of his nightmares, fuelled by the blame and self-hatred that, once haunted him, now threatened to return, days, _weeks_ since _Genwar’s_ mission. It was clear from the reappearances of Anadón. Not yet in the hours that Lance spent awake, forcing himself to eat, to talk, to pretend he was fine….   
_But it was only a matter of time._

Once Lance had calmed, and Eldar was reassured enough to unwind his arms, did Lance finally pull himself from Eldar’s chest. The Pawther stayed close though, and now they sat together, with the Human still slotted snuggly in Eldar’s lap. A hand rested on his back, another around his shoulders where Lance’s bare shoulders shuddered under the cool air of the infirmary. 

“Lance? How are you feeling?” 

Tho’xemae had joined them at this point, standing near the edge of the cot, not quite ready to move in too close, should Lance still not be quite awake and perceive his as a danger. The usual assessment began, with Tho’ keeping his distant only a little longer as Lance answered all of his questions, like how was he feeling, what could he see and all the mundane, doctor questions that reminded Lance of home.   
No matter what the numbers on the screens said, Tho’xemae always preferred his own questioning; the researcher in him, always needing answers to a thousand questions. 

Tho’ is talking gently over the sounds of the gentle melodic beeping of his medical equipment. He and the other workers that still man the ward have already cleaned up the mess of adrenaline drug, blood and stomach acid, but prompt Lance to take the remainder of the drug into his system. The purple fluid is edible, and doesn’t taste half-bad.   
Except, no matter how fast Lance opens his throat and downs the cold fluid, his tongue always feels like velvet, and his head gets stuffy for a moment that makes him sickeningly dizzy. Although, he’s yet to spew, because more than likely he’s already thrown up before downing the stuff. 

“Here, wash it down with this.”   
A hand bathes in lavender thrusts a cup close to Lance, in it bearing a glass of silver unicorn blood. Lance takes the _Kirkuk_ eagerly, downing the drink even faster, letting it coat his throat and bring feeling back to his tongue. “Thanks, Viridall.”   
“Anytime,” the Pawther grins, patting Lance on the shoulder before withdrawing. He’s not alone as the audience to Lance’s awakening; Zaos and Roamer are present too.   
Zaos won’t meet Lance’s eyes, but Roamer doesn’t share the same guilt that keeps her gaze from her Leader. “How are you,” she asks, tilting her head as her pantacles draw around her and the white grab that swabs her body. The dull thud of her pulse is noted, but Lance knows she won’t allow him to question her just yet until Tho’ and Eldar have given him the green light to leave the med-bay. 

“Better,” Lance forces out: his mouth dry like he’s talking around a mouthful of sand. Kirkuk does that too him, but it’s better than his tongue tasting like nettles and mud. 

“The repairs?” Because even as the others won’t talk about themselves, Lance shares the same desire, always pushing to move on from his current weakness. Since _Genwar_ he has put up walls that do not allow himself to talk about things that are too personal.   
It’s enough that he has nightmares, but in waking hours, he’s contending with the split in his mind that has him fighting his own thoughts in a battle to remain Valion, and the weak willed, pathetic boy that has no place in the Universe. 

_“Arenphine—”_  
“Repairs,” Lance forces again, eyes narrowing to Eldar in question and warning all at once. Lance almost falters at the look of concern his lover wears, and continues to as he refuses to drop it whilst he talks, knowing Lance won’t play the game if they do not do it on his terms. 

Eldar knows Lance cannot stand his own weakness, and the only way he knows how to cope with it, is simple ignorance. Lance needs Eldar to do the same, and so, the role of worried lover is replaced by that of Valion’s Support. 

“The _Godolphin’s_ repairs are almost complete. The second engine has been fixed and the extensive damage to the exterior will be finished by the end of the day. Matriarch is leading her crew back to the _Rexx-Marth_ with their supplies.” 

“And Roamer? What of you and your crew?”   
“My crew are well Valion. We have pushed the Galra from the _Medellin_ system completely. The Ongar delegation have trusted us with the safety of their planets, and have begun making the necessary arrangements to support our settlement.” 

The Ongarites were a race of aliens that already had dealings with Roamer and her quadrant of fighter jets, back before the Solnha was truly Solnha and just a bunch of renegade pirates that were pillaging and plundering from every shiny transport ship. Thanks to Roamer’s good will and offerings of support to the technological minded race, the Ongarites had given the Solnha a planet as payment. Their sixth moon, but a planet nonetheless and a home for the Solnha.   
A home for many, whose homes had been once destroyed. 

“The Ongarites have been more than accommodating to the refugees already,” Roamer continues, coming closer to where Lance sits, her eyes unmistakably sweeping the still-healing scars on his skin. “Many have already joined the fight, and have provided us with, not only a fleet of remote drone-fighters, but a construction compound on their homeworld. The bulk of the Trigamon that aren’t supporting the inner functions of the home-tree are helping build more ships as we speak, to bolster our growing numbers.”

Lance nodded, listening to the improvements of the fleet and the updates on Fellfrir and her attempts to push past the blockade back towards _Caesura._ Since the half-victory at _Genwar,_ the Galra had done all they could to push the Solnha away from the systems they had been previously occupying. _Medellin_ was larger than _Caesura_ and _Balter_ put together, but for some reason the Galra were content for now, to let the system be taken by the Solnha. An attack was imminent of course, but that didn’t mean the Galra knew which planet the Solnha were based on, out of the thousands in the _Medellin_ system. And with the Ongarites helping to conceal them with their technology, it would be a while until they were found.

“The Balmeran People we freed from the Galra in _Ruse Minor_ want to give us crystals to use for fuel, but they need to wait until the Balmera heals.”   
“Energy transference,” Lance provides, and the details of knowledge taken from the time spent with Voltron are accepted by the Hyaline. Lance doesn’t know if magical Altean energy is all that can be given for the sake of a crystal, but if he can heal the Balmeran’s homeworld like Allura saved the ancient beast in _Javeeno—No, no stop thinking about them._

Eldar’s impatience at the meeting extends to toe tapping and hands curling around his Arenphine’s body. Lance can feel his irritation against him, smell the prickling of holly and the touches of almond about his scent that that doesn’t sit right with Lance. He knows his own scent is souring, if Viridall and Eldar’s turned noses are to go by.   
His lover holds tighter, but Lance swats him away as Roamer’s report continues. Zaos stays unnaturally quiet, inside his mind, but he doesn’t draw focus to her when focus isn’t wanted. Eldar certainly wants focus. By the time they’re discussing the Hycis people who are travelling to _Caldara_ to begin the colonisation, Eldar has had enough of it and left, sulking and pouting but not without a kiss to Lance’s brow and a strict “ _sleep”_ that will undoubtedly be ignored. 

Lance saw him out with a smirk and a fake glare, but its only because Eldar doesn’t understand Lance’s need to push through pain. Physical, mental, emotional. Whatever. He can’t be weak little Lance that lost his place as Paladin. He can’t be the pathetic Human that needs saving, the same pathetic _yinvard_ that has nightmares from an almost failure.  
Lance has to be strong. He has to be Valion, the leader, the one to stand as head of the Solnha and be everyone’s confidence, even if he has none himself.   
He has to be strong for everyone’s sake. Before they stop believing in him.

The thought pulls Lance’s face into an ugly scowl and a hiss rips through his teeth. It is what makes him stand off the bed, casting aside the bed sheets that still trapped his legs. He rips the remainder of the substitute cannula from his body, ignoring the insists of Tho’ who follows him. “Valion you can’t,” he says, but the Human won’t listen as he marches from the infirmary; a stern face the mask he wears, taking himself to his own quarters. 

The crew of the _Godolphin_ saluted as Valion passed them, bowing or nodding their heads, greeting him with joy and a quick _“hail Valion,”_ all of them sharing the same relief to seeing their Leader, strong and well. Valion waved in return, not slowing his steps, even when Tho’xemae and Roamer call after him. Zaos remains his shadow. Ever-present, and ever silent. 

“Valion, please wait. Do not push yourself. The scans to your internal organs reveal cracks in your thoracic bone structure from the fall, and you’ve ruptured cells near your main organs. I am yet to seal the bleeds,” Tho’ tells him as they entered Valion and Prime’s private chambers.   
Valion, of course, pays his injuries no mind. They are nothing but a dull ache, easily rectified with _Eyre._

“The bleed will clot; the crack will mend. For now, I have other concerns.” 

Valion didn’t entertain Tho’xemae’s worries much longer than he needed to, instead shedding the small-weave bindings that trapped his lower half. It was a suit similar to the one Coran used to force him into whenever he needed to take a nap in the cryo-pod; a technology greatly missed within the Solnha rankings.   
Maybe one day he can reach out to his old comrades and learn of the healing capabilities. Or maybe he’ll just send the Trigamon in again as spies and get them to steal one so identical technology can be reproduced in abundance, to suit the growing rogue alliance’s needs. 

Valion allows Roamer to help him back into familiar armour. _Fila Ion,_ of which he wore into battle, was now the boy’s customary attire. Or parts of it at least, as and when needed throughout his daily routine. 

The armoured helmet remained in his quarters, alongside the chest plates and upper armour. Lance only wished to wear the lower half and an open cape the reminded him of when he and his siblings played ‘superheroes’ back on Earth. Unlike the red, superman costume Lance wore, his own cape was midnight-blue in colour, with argument ahains that made the joining piece sit upon his chest.   
The _Godolphin_ internal temperature ran hot, and with the internal temperature system still acting up since the Galra skirmish, it was currently running _hotter._

In a different time, perhaps Lance would even wear this to catch Eldar’s eye, but now he has to focus on the upcoming delegation meetings. 

Roamer informs him the Ongarites want to speak with him personally; just a formality she explains, but Valion accepts knowing what it means to give the people what they want. Positive publicity and a good word sent to allies of their own, meaning Valion’s people would not only be their own civilisation, but perhaps become the umbrella that accepts others too. It would be like how Allura was in her alliance meetings, with and without the Marmora backing her—No, _stop it!_ The last time he thought about the team, it lost him the freedom of his family. He won’t let himself be distracted like that again. Not for a second.

Lance shakes his head, trying to return his thoughts back to focus. Think, _think._  
That’s right, the remainder of the free Pawther people had rallied after hearing their Prince was alive. Prime hadn’t wanted to claim the title once more, instead inviting unity with the Hycis and the refugees that made up the Solnha Pirates. There was already the talk of seeking out other pockets of Pawthen population, but for now, the home-tree needed to be secure, and the refugees already in the Solnha’s care needed to settle. There was no use getting ahead of themselves too soon.   
As it was, many other civilisations in the closest star systems, (whose Planets were captured or destroyed by the Galra) had joined also, much like the Ongar Delegation who had given their support.

“And how many Dobosh will it be until all of the main ships will return to _Caldara?”_

Valion was back in the hallways once more, Tho’ and Roamer behind him as they ventured down a floor, to the meeting room that Valion has designated _“Switzerland.”_  
For all it means to the aliens, it is neutral ground, where the _Saults_ can convene and not be worried that their voice for reason will not be taking account as an act of rebellion. If they want to dispute a mission, or argue away the usefulness of sending one ship above another, then it can be done in the comfort of _“Switzerland”_ without retribution. 

It once just another empty unit on the _Godolphin;_ a storage room with system access ship-wide. It was used then, for the sake of monitoring, maintenance checks and the likes, but that could all be done from a triple dozen _other_ modules across the ship, giving Valion free use of the room. 

It isn’t empty anymore.   
Now the spacious alcove walls are plastered with maps and cross-sections of various territories, Galra Ships and Bases. The chairs that once surrounded the far table have been pressed up against the wall, housing storage pods of data chips and paper copies of sketches and information that Valion and his team of confidantes have gathered.   
Roamer has added her own personal touch, and of course the imprint of her and her own crew crowd the far corner, as well as taking space on the back wall’s holo projector, showing the tracking systems of the _Fellmot, Rexx-Marth_ and Matriarch’s _Draos._

Eldar was already present, having this been the place that he retreated too after waiting for Valion in the infirmary. He doesn’t look all that impressed to see that his _Arenphine_ hasn’t taken his advice to sleep, but it wasn’t something he expected Lance would listen to in the first place, so his grimace is only for show. Ygrainne sits beside her Prime, Viridall, Irian and Iefyr also seated. Beside the Angkor is a honey-milk Trigamon Valion was yet to meet in person, but by the ocular prosthetic and missing ear, he already knows them to be Fara; an elder Trigamon that until recently was in charge of her faction aboard the _Fellmot._

Fellfrir’s face fills a screen. At Valion’s gaze, she greets him with a silent nod, turning her attention back to the table as the Human approaches. They are all turned to Prime, as he speaks with another on visual display. It was Gereen, aboard the _Rexx-Marth._  
“Gornonyyn, Valion,” he says in greeting, complete with a salute when he notices just who it is that takes up the empty seat beside Eldar. Valion gives a curt nod, gesturing the Pawther two to continue. 

“Any news on Ovule?” Valion asks Irian to his left. It is common news for all that Orvis and Ovule are traitors; a notion the least bit surprising when Valion first woke to tell them as such. Since then, Garecht has been confirmed dead, his body burnt and released to the stars. 

“None. And none on the movements of his sister either.” Roamer wringed her tentacles together, eyes darting away, her pulse stuttering. Those at the table watched her, their own expressions darkening at that name. “We do not think Ovule was on the base when Orvis was. Although we hope she was killed along with… along with the base’s destruction,” she says, choosing not to speak the names of the fallen. Not yet. 

“But Ovule has remained elusive. The stolen fighter was absent from battle, and so we’re assuming that he is still out there, preparing to launch an attack against us if he can rally the Galra behind him. With _Genwar’s_ destruction, we’re hoping that they will be less willing to listen this time.”   
“Only a fool hopes and blinds himself to an enemy that will stab him in the back,” Valion replies. Dry. Cold.  
He ignored the chill of ice water on his left shoulder, where lingering scars remained of imbedded teach marks. Eldar caught the scent of brewing storm clouds, turning his body to his Arenphine, leaning in closer when one of his hands found its way into Lance’s. They shared a wordless apology referring to earlier in the infirmary, but there was nothing worth apologising for. Just worry and tiredness that had both heartmates strained.   
Lance would make it up to him tonight though. _If Eldar allowed strenuous activity,_ that is. 

“From this point on we will treat Ovule as he is; an enemy. We will assume he is alive and planning to move against us. Roamer, I want you to consider contingencies should this ever play into truth.”   
“Yes Valion.” 

Gereen continued his report, and the successful interception with the Daratrine coalition, announcing that the _Rexx-Marth,_ which had been salvaging supplies on Torous would be returning to _Caldara_ two sunsets passed. The video feed ended with another respectful salute and a curt goodbye. 

“Daratrine Coalition?” Valion asked. He hated the fact that his inability to keep himself Valion one moment and Lance the next forced him into nightmares and out of the loop of the growing alliance. He was meant to be their leader, and here he was, asking questions because he took an involuntary nap after triggering his PTSD.   
It’s easier to lie to the crew and tell them the pain of loss messes with his Human magic. But Eldar, and other more perceptive aliens know there are more than secrets Lance conceals. At least they honour him, or his strength, enough not to question it.

A lot has happened, _good things,_ but it’s the frustration that gets to him. It’s the tightness in his chest that pulls his face into a grimace. Good thing he has the _Godolphin’s_ resident medic sat beside him to keep an eye on his injuries. Tho’ understands to do this covertly however, not wanting to bring worry to the others. 

“We have seven more ships from the Daratrine,” he says, monotonously, like he’s not talking about his own kin. His eyes remain hard-set and his face as much as stone, staring only at the recordings of Valion’s medical stats. “They’ve sent ships, supplies and food, but will not join us in battle. They say it risks their own neutral status.”   
“Why?” Valion asks, already knowing how stubborn the Daratrine had been. Even when he explained to them that Zarkon doesn’t care whether a party is neutral or not, and that if they sided with the Solnha, then at least they are under protection when the inevitable happens and Zarkon attacks—

“They said it is in honour of Sister Uilt’xen. Nothing more.” 

Lance’s face darkened.   
He cast his eyes to Tho’, whose own were shadowed. Unseeing. “I’ve already thanked them on your behalf. It was the least they could do, since she—”

“She’s not dead.” 

Valion’s words cut through the room like a scream in the dead of the night, yet his voice was barely louder than his normal voice. All eyes were upon him instantly. Some wary, like Ygrainne and Tho’xemae. Some patient, like Viridall and Fara. Only Fellfrir looked distantly amused, but at least she had the sense not to smile. 

“Valion—”  
_“She’s not dead._ Neither is Rayon or Kenmare of Leonel, so stop telling me otherwise. As soon as the _Fellmot_ can push through the Galra’s barricade then we will return to _Genwar_ to free them, or we will free them from whatever transport ship tries to take them to _Talladega._ Ygrainne is monitoring the traffic and an out of their controlled system, so as soon as we hear of news, we can push for another assault.” 

Ygrainne turns cheek at her name, but no one looks to her. They’re too busy waiting to see who will confront Valion this time. No one does. 

His anger remains only in his voice however, the only sign to the fire in him released in the taut of his voice. He turns to Iefyr, rightly keeping himself in check as not to worry the Angkor any more than normal. “You sent your intelligence squadron to the outer reaches of _Valfur_ to keep an eye on traffic on and off the Genwar surface. Any news?”

“Nothing worth noting, except rogue ships and the remnants of a battle.”  
“The ships? What is their origin?”  
“Galran tech, by our surveys, but they didn’t engage when we were clearly in range. Instead, it seemed that they diverted.” 

Valion nods to himself, but whatever thoughts he has concerning the strangers are kept to himself. “Alright, keep monitoring for them. I don’t think they’re enemy. But that doesn’t mean they might not be territorial of their claimed planets. Whoever they are, friend or foe, we’ll have to continue to be vigilant in our outings. Once the Daratrine Coalition reaches the planet, unload supplies then have half run patrols in the outer regions of the Ongarites’ territory. The remaining crew can help with the colonisation of _Caldara.”_  
“The tundra is similar to Arus, with plenty of space for all settlers,” Roamer added, turning to one of her crewmates beside her, to check on the construction of shelters that was being updated accordingly to a holo-chip. 

“The ships will provide shelter for the crews for time being. Since _Caldara_ was only used as a geological scientific research base, there isn’t enough space for everyone right away. 

“The Hycis Miners have already organised themselves among the Draora to dig out more facilities while retaining the defence structure of the volcano. For camouflage and defensive purposes, I think it’s best if everyone resides underground. Farming and livestock can also be structured underground with artificial lighting.”   
Valion nodded along as Roamer spoke. “Then I will defer to your good judgement. If there are spare bodies that can provide assistance, then please lend them to Roamer’s workforce. The quicker we can colonise the home-tree the sooner we can return to the mission of ridding the universe of the Galra, one system at the time.” 

Details of colonising _Caldara_ became an in-depth topic long enough that Valion was distracted from the weight on his mind. 

Once the remaining ships returned to Caldara, and the alliance could be left in the capable hands of his family, he would take a small scouting ship, perhaps a small detail of strong fighter to return to _Genwar_ himself.   
Lance knew the Galra would interrogate his family for information on their alliance, if not enslave them to bolster up the mining crew once more.   
He’d find his family himself. 

He’d save them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and it gave me a chance to do more world building. 
> 
> Chapter #40 upload scheduled for 21st
> 
> Holy shit, I just realised how close to Christmas we are... o.O


	40. A Want To Be Valion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance or Valion. Valion or Lance. He can’t be both. He has to choose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants a breather from all the tension?  
> I know Lance surely needs one, and Eldar, like the good space-boyfriend he is, is going to look after his Arenphine. 
> 
> Enjoy the fluff~ x
> 
> A/N: Eldar and Lance’s moment was written to North, by Sleeping At Last

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

Valion kicked at the snow that piled beneath his feet, an irritation worn like a second skin as the Solnha Leader stared through amplification lenses, at the _Rexx-Marth_ Squadron leaving _Caldara’s_ atmosphere. They were to run a territory sweep before following Valion’s request of returning to _Genwar,_ for recon and the gathering of intel. 

The plan wasn’t Lance’s initial decision, instead having approached Gereen when he and his ship had reached _Caldara_ with the idea that he and the Pawther, with a small detail of guards would return to the Galra base and rescue those that had been left behind.  
It wasn’t to be, however, when Eldar learnt of his _Arenphine’s_ plans. He was quick to shut it down, or attempt to at least, which revolved in a lot of shouting and arguing that echoed through the halls of the Home Tree’s branches. Naturally, the _Saults_ overheard the fighting, and learnt of Valion’s want to return to _Genwar._

Roamer used logic to try and convince her Leader that it was foolish, that Leonel and the others were dead. When he retaliated with anger, she sought a different course of action, arguing things such as a waste of fuel and the possibility of failure of sneaking leading to attracting Galra attention.  
But Lance simply turned such points on their heads, stating that the Daratrine ships; explorer-class were all highly technological, with high-speed propulsion systems, cloaking technology and long-range scanners, that would mean that the squadron wouldn’t have to get close. Not even within orbiting range. 

Still, many voices rose in disagreement. 

_“If Gereen feels the mission too dangerous, he can decline if he wishes,”_ Valion had said in council, turning to the Pawther Dull beside him. But Gereen, instead of bowing out, had responded with a salute and a curt, _“it will be done.”_  
He had resumed the position of dutiful guard, perhaps not to his Pantheon Prime, but to the Human who had spared him and hadn’t shunned him even after his mate and crew had abandoned the Solnha.  
Valion understood why Eldar held respect of him, even with their previous disagreements. Gereen was a good ally to have. It was a shame he had been lured by the Arroyen’s greed. 

Valion watched the ships break atmosphere and disappear up into the gentle cloud cover coming in from the North. The snowstorm was yet to break, but it would make no difference to the Solnha, who had already taken shelter in the mountains. 

The Hycis had almost finished work on the last of the underground settlements, perhaps the only orders to be completed was to extend the ship bunkers. Later on, there would be need to extend the residential chambers to make room for other refugees, but for now, Valion and the Saults had come to the agreement that to, not only defend from the enemy, but hide from their long-range visual scanners, that even the spacecraft would be housed underground.  
Access was hidden in the Eastern Gorge, big enough for even the _Fellmot_ to sink into, and anchor herself in its depths. All the other large fleet ships had hangars dug into the gorge’s face, with linking branches that tunnelled towards the main trunk of the Home Tree, or looped down to the factories and mines at its roots. 

The Hycis themselves were masters with digging, and with the added, unrivalled strength of the Draora to aid them, the old Ongarites’ research base extended, with the tunnels being chiselled into became smooth stone halls, columns of soft stone towering high into marvellous halls, nothing like the warren of cave systems Valion had imagined their base to be constructed of when he first learnt that they were to be completely underground.  
Instead, when he and the others descended into the mouth of the dormant volcano, he was left to marvel at the glorious halls that stood as the inner carvings of _Caldara’s_ tallest mountain. 

Glo Fire, mined from the planet’s core, lay like rivers of vermillion in the smooth-brick stone, rivulets of light that filled the caves with their own pulsating dance that chased one another up and down the veins. The branching tunnels were nothing like those back on _Torous;_ uneven stone pathways; an unorganised chaos of interlinking chambers.  
Instead, they were striking architectural wonders that Lance could happily lose himself in as he wondered from residential warrens, to the workings of the crop plateaus, the underwater caves where Delphi could swim freely with other refugee aliens that took to the water like birds to the sky. 

The cold of the Winter was fought with a giant bonfire in a central hall, the large curving circular chamber that stood erect in the centre of the Home Tree, the bole standing as the main communal place for all. 

From there, hallways and tunnels twisted and turned, branching off to form a logical maze of sleeping chambers, storage caves and designated Glo Rooms in which the Hasp had begun to cultivate the land without having to wait for the turn of the season. Specialised, nutrient-enriched soil was shipped in from Ongar when asked, along with plentiful shipments of food and nutrients that would speed the growth of the plants to support the civilisation. 

Two floors above was the hangar in which the smaller spaceships could dock; currently being used to help unload supplies and ferry work crews to and from locations so that the work could be completed as soon as possible. 

At first, Lance had thought subjecting the Solnha to a life underground would be torture for them: Taken away from the sun, the moons and the rain, trapped underground with nothing but dirt and darkness.  
But in the middle of _Caldara’s_ Winter, the sun was only seen for four hours a day, the ice and snow making the planet near-on uninhabitable. Spring and Summer only lasted three months, leaving little time for thaw and vegetation to grow. It was one of the reasons the Ongarites were not opposed to allowing the Solnha to colonise it, and giving up their universal claim on the Ice Moon. 

And with the architectural genius of the Trigamon, the strength and power of the Hycis, and the artistically minded Daratrine, the desolate planet of _Caldara_ had been transformed into a thriving kingdom for Valion and his people.  
They crafted their own sun; a wonderment of Glo fire that hung in the centre of the Home Tree’s heart. They crafted their own moon too, from pale Glo Fire whose glow was dim and white in comparison but just as beautiful. Stars were the fragmented mirror stones, embedded in the rock wall, reflecting the moon’s light when the sun was doused and moon would light the halls while many of the people slept. 

They had been surface bound for a week now, and already Lance could see them thriving, safe. Many of the refugees had settled, falling into roles of solider, farmer, scientist, whatever the Alliance needed to continue to thrive and grow as a working, effective community that stood as a significant rebel force against the Galra Empire.  
But for all the achievements that they took, with every milestone taken and left behind, Valion feared that the quick expansion would unsettle their current mission. He feared that the Solnha might grow complacent now that they had a new home, and that they’d only fight the Galra to defend their home, and not continue as they had so far, facing the Galra on every front, not just for themselves, but for all the victims of the war. 

It was a foolish thought, a part of him said, but doubts and niggles were what kept himself focused. They weren’t necessarily bad things to invade his headspace, but there were some thoughts he didn’t want to consider, even if they were important. Like the fear of a Galra invasion. The fear of food supplies running out before the farms can be growing crops at full capacity, that the underwater lakes will be fished until empty, that livestock will be consumed before the breeding season, that the stress of war will split the Solnha into factions once more and before the Galra can be fought, they’ll be fighting one another… 

Valion sighed to himself. They were all important thoughts, he knew that. But he also knew that worrying about all of them at once would only steal his energy and plague his confidence. The _Saults_ were all there, doing their part, supporting him too, so it wasn’t like the fate of the Solnha rested entirely on his shoulders.  
But sometimes, it did feel like that. 

Valion shrugged into the fur wrappings that helped him and his less-than-appropriate attire on an ice planet. The inner halls were hot, but surface level and its incoming blizzard was not.  
He dropped the amplification lenses to his side, one arm rubbing at the sores of his dislocated shoulder whilst the scoured the horizon for a tell-tale sign of something out of place, as the traffic of spacecraft flittered in and out of the clouds. The Ongarites has sent another shipment of supplies – medical equipment this time – and although everyone was thankful for the gift, Valion couldn’t help but feel it was a warning in disguises. There was no reason to expect the Ongarites as traitorous, but Lance wasn’t alive this long because he trusted everyone because they flashed a smile and was kind. He’d learnt his lesson from Nyma. He’d learnt more from the Arroyen’s betrayal. He wouldn’t let himself, or his family, get caught off guard again—

“Lance?” 

The Human turned to his spoken name, eyes wide for a second, forcing his expression from a frown into something seemingly calm. It was surprising that it worked, considering that is was Eldar who approached, saying nothing about the taut-rope, cold-mint-spice-burn that caught his nose. Even he wore a garb of heavy fur; his personal fur coat being too thin for the four-foot snow and an approaching blizzard about to break and bury them under another ten.

“It’s cold out here,” Eldar said, working his way between tumbled rocks and the ice of the glacier, away from the tunnel of which he appeared, to where Lance was. He was sitting too close to the edge for his liking, and Eldar didn’t want to get too close himself. The big lug maybe terrifying in the face of the Galra horde, not care for Foci’s impromptu lift system, but put him on the edge of the cliff with a sure-fire death at the bottom of the drop and his legs go to jelly. 

Noticing his _Arenphine’s_ hesitation, Valion picked himself from his perch up off one particularly rounded boulder, and made his way away from the cliff face, towards where his heart-mate waited with an open cloak and open arms. 

Their hands linked, fingers entwining as the taller pulled Lance closer until chests touched and cold lips met. “Hi,” Lance breathed against the other’s lips, only breaking the kiss to smile, before Eldar was chasing them and they joined again. “Hi,” he laughed in return, velvet soft, petal sweet, at the break of the third kiss.  
And Valion, with all his tension and twisted nerves, become unknotted underneath Eldar’s palms. They are only light touches, like what has always been shared between them since the beginning; a hand light on his shoulder, a touch to Lance’s hip or the small of his back as Eldar leaned into his space and past, or setting his hand between Lance’s shoulder blades of the nape of his neck to calm him when the nightmares found him.  
The nightmares weren’t as prominent anymore. They still came, there was no denying their hold on his lover’s mind, but Eldar would only need to speak in the quiet, cool air of their nest and Lance, still in the realm of dreams, would hear him from beyond the veil, _and calm._  
One day, he would be free of them, or maybe not at all, but Eldar would always be there for his _Arenphine,_ to protect him, to chase away the night terrors, to hold him when he felt lonely. 

He holds Lance now, the two of them, together, not needing to pull apart. Instead, they move, only slightly, so that they can see the whole of their beloved’s face, still absorbing the warmth of their body for one they hadn’t touched freely like this, in so long. Of course, nights were spent together, wrapped up in one another’s embrace.  
But Eldar rose with the dawn, as much involved in the colonisation of _Caldara_ as his lover. And Valion, when he retired to their bed chambers, Eldar would already be curled in sleep, the space between his arms open and waiting.  
Their duties took them separate, and even though Valion selfishly wished for his Arenphine to be with him by his side at every chance they could, he knew, more than anyone, that everyone had to play their part in the war against the Galra. Eldar included. 

“You’re tired,” comes his gentle voice, sweet-starlight-soft. Eldar noses along the boy’s jaw, the all-too-familiar, love-struck wonder that paints sunrises in hooded eyes, heaving in deep, greedy inhales of Lance’s scent, rose-gold, fresh wheat, crisp-apples all folded into a warm-buttery pastry pie. And caught in those warm, endlessly tender sun-soaked whisky eyes, all graceless limbs and unbridled laughter, bubbly never-ending affection that pushed up, through the dark, tar-tainted fear that plagued him. 

“I’m not tired,” Lance replies playfully, for the sake of conversation and delaying the inevitable retreat to the warmth of the Home Tree’s bore. “But you’re cold,” Eldar says, happy to join in this game of back and forth. “And I know you hurt when you’re too cold,” he begins, but his words are halted with a kiss that Lance hums into, a gasp not meant as an invitation but taken as such when he slips his tongue in, curls his spidery, willow-thin fingers into Eldar’s fur just to hold him in place.  
_I don’t care,_ the kiss says, one that seeps into Eldar’s skin, bones, enough that he is chasing after the boy’s taste when he moves to pull back.

Eldar won’t let go willingly. He has recently returned from an Alliance meeting with the denizens of planets in the neighbouring squadron. It has been days since they’ve shared a quiet, personal moment to themselves, between duties and appearances for the growing alliance and interested civilisations that have bartered protection for ships and numbers.  
Some have bartered threats. And it was to those that Eldar and Fellfrir took their ships, gave swift judgement and returned with gifts instead of more enemies. It wasn’t the way Valion wanted to conduct peace between other planets, but of course there were some who would look down on the accumulation of varied species.  
And to save them from a battle later on, to save face with supporters and convince would-be enemies a fight was fruitless, Valion and his _Saults_ agreed that swift capture of star systems were in their best interests. They didn’t stay, of course. They simply sacked the planets for salvageable ships, parts and energy cores.  
Neither food nor slaves were taken – that wasn’t the lessons he wanted to teach. The conquest of _Haevaul, Ruihyn_ and _Kustig_ were warnings. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Eldar could brief Valion on the details of his latest victories, but for now, Lance would take his main focus and give him peace he so desperately sought after. It had been too long since he held him in his arms. 

There was more between them than just a longing to see one another, and Eldar knew Lance needed to shed the crown of Valion, if only to be free from the burden for one long afternoon. His own role of Prime had struck him many a day passed, so there was no surprise when Lance felt the same. He hadn’t been born for the role, promised it as his birthright, nor taught the ways of leadership in preparation.  
Valion was thrust upon him like they were thrust into war. If he was to succeed in leading the people, then he needed support from those that loved and respected him. Eldar would be the one to hold him when Lance was too tired to stand. 

Kisses and languid love would not be permitted for long, if the coming snowstorm had anything to say. It ushered Lance and his lover back away from the glaciers edge, to the peeking branch of the Home Tree that called the pair back into the warmth.  
They made their way together, amidst laughter and low tones of shared secrets that had onlookers smile warmly. The sight of their Valion warmed them, stoking the fires of peace in their hearts. But the scars he bore and the distant ghost of misery kept them wishing for vengeance. For his sake and the sake of the names memorialised in Home Tree’s hearth. 

Salutes follow them as they pass; the two of them that remain in their own world as they walk through hallways and tunnels twisting, down towards Home Tree’s trunk and up again, until they came to the large quarters the Hycis had created for Eldar and Valion.  
It was a gift for them both, not only as Leader of the Free Hycis that owed Valion their lives, but a gift from all that planned the construction of caverns and corridors. Valion’s room was high enough that the balcony inside his room, overlooked the main hearth, just beneath the Glo Fire sun. From there, he could lean over and look down to the hearth and the central bonfire that heated mountain and its many caverns. 

And it was here, in this peace where Valion could take of his mask and just _breathe._  
It is in moments like this when they’re together, when Eldar can press into the soft edge, all the little nooks and crannies filling up with his scent, his own charged overlaying the distant lightening-storm-shock, the intermingling curdled-sour that lingers with Lance long after the storm. The ice-rain that stung cheek and tongue, that lashings of rope that bound his words to nothing but breathless sobs and whimpering cries that pulled him beyond the veil each and every night.  
Eldar knew Lance wasn’t fighting it. It was the only punishment he could find that he had no control over.  
The cuts in his skin were fictitious, but bled more serious than any that came with friable glass shards, the burn of blade-edge of the dagger Lance held on his person every moment for the fear of _what if._

His switchblade had been lost, with their family, to the fires of _Genwar._ Another was to be made for him, another that was stronger, lighter, more durable and fitting to his person that it wouldn’t easily be stolen from hand or hip.  
But when the blade met parting skin and blood permeated the air, enough that Viridall was called from the lower chambers by the acidic-charred-flesh-pain-torment stench, did Eldar realise just how much more Lance was hurting underneath his mask. 

The boy had learnt to conceal his pain, not just from eyes, but from scent too. The sweetness of spring berry masked the potency of blood behind biting teeth, the sharpness of ocean waves drawing sight from the toxic-pitch-suffocating-sludge. Eldar hadn’t smelt how distant Lance’s aura-scent was, how frozen, how pale his colour underneath Eldar’s, underneath the petals and scales of others whose company he kept that day. 

Poignantly, Eldar’s eyes and nose caught onto Lance’s pain after thinking that his _Arenphine_ was coping with the weight of everything. Instead he had danced past the intricate depth of his lover’s mind, and now all there is, is guilt and hurt, because, not only is this another failure as lover and Prime and heartmate, but it is the consequence of his last failure. He had let Lance lead the ground mission, taking Roamer’s words as wisdom before sending someone he loves to his own downfall. And almost, to his own death.  
A mistake like that couldn’t be so easily rectified, but he should’ve learnt that first time, and he should’ve stopped it before it happened again. 

But it happened again. 

_“It’s not your fault, love,”_ Lance would tell him when he felt the electric-buzz of despair underneath his own fingertips, in tune to his lover’s emotions through their bond, even as Eldar tries to hide his own weakness like Lance hides his. But Lance, melodic, listens to Eldar’s symphony and knows the chord of dissonance that beats out of time to his heart.  
“It’s not your fault,” he repeats, fervent and true, the arrow piercing deep, the infection drawn out with pain and tears and hushed whispers shared together. It wasn’t his fault nor was it Lance’s. 

It was the Galra’s.  
Always the Galra’s.

It was the fault of the Empire and their mindless slaves, their tyrannical Emperor and the corrupt dictatorship he controlled. The very same that brainwashed the populace into believing the Galra were some great race, destined to rule everyone, everything, for all eternity.

They deserved nothing but death and loneliness.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Time passed, unknowingly, around them.

Once together, healed and healing still, they thought of nothing else but the heat that held them close, like forge fires that would bind them together, into forever and beyond.  
All that existed in these pure, precious moments were the chorus of heartbeats, that beat together until they were one and the same. And Lance called out and Eldar called back, both of them calling out for one another in the desperation to be closer, to be together and never apart again. Not even for a moment. 

Eldar held Lance harder than he ever had before. But no pain came from strength; featherlight touches, cotton candy kisses, a steadfast hold the kept them in this moment of love and love and _immeasurable_ love. 

Time passes and although their love doesn’t end, the moment has to. Inevitable. Like all things.  
And still, they continue to share lazily kisses with one another, wrapped in a moment of peace. Free from meetings and duties and the interruptions of the real world. 

“I’m sorry it’s not Pantheon,” Lance says to the dimness of the room, nuzzling into the crook of his lover’s neck, letting his scent mark him so that he’ll be reminded of his heartmate with just the aftertaste in the air. The Glo Fire gave light, just enough to see the shine of his Arenphine’s eyes, twinkling at him from his side. Dawning sun and marigold shine.  
Lance’s smile is natural, warm, unlike his words that are saturated of colour, loosing the touch of love that passed. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more.” 

Eldar dipped his head, as Lance brought his own up and they shared a kiss. Soft, sweet, hasty, but with as much feeling as he could pour into those few seconds. “You’ve given me more than I could ever wish for, mu love. It doesn’t have to be Pantheon. It doesn’t even have to be our own Planet, here on _Caldara.”_ He means it, Lance can hear and see and smell, in that study-oak, stone statuesque of the promise he has whispered before and will whisper again, as many times as Lance wishes to hear. 

_“Anywhere with you is where I wish to be.”_

It’s those words that never fail to brighten Lance’s scent, from bleak snow to warm April showers, from pale greys and cold blues to the luscious depths of the ocean’s sapphire waves, the coral gems of polished seashells, all pearl and alabaster upon the shore. 

“You’re only saying that,” Lance teases. “Not so,” Eldar replies, pulling Lance closer so that he can hear his beating heart. Steady. Truth.  
“I love you. You are my home. You are…” His words tremble, the weight of his words taking the air from his lungs like they have a thousand times he’s almost voiced them, here in their nest or on the Bridge or in the middle of sparring or that first night when Lance laid with him beneath the covers. Lover. Arenphine. Mate. _Future._

A hand cups his chin, drawing unsure eyes to steady blue puddles of summer rain, moonstone gems that glimmer with curiosity and calm. So Eldar, laid in their nest, just goes for it. 

“I want to build a proper family.” 

And Lance who wasn’t expecting this, stares at his with wide eyes. He looks shocked, not pleasantly or unpleasantly. Just shocked.  
Eldar blames panic for the kiss, but it might just be his immeasurable lover that pulls Lance closer, plants the kiss and silences any dismissal the boy has ready. “Sorry, that was stupid. Just sleep, rest. You’ve got a busy—”  
“Eldar.” 

He doesn’t sound angry. His tone his sharp, rope-taut tight but there’s more underlining the uncertainty that breeds between them, with Eldar’s quickening heartbeat and the way Lance pushes up off of him so they’re looking one another in the eye.  
Eldar obviously doesn’t know when to shut up, because he’s still talking, trying to calm Lance’s spitfire-anger before it can surface, singe their sheets and decide the next three nights will be spent alone. 

“Lance I’m sorry, I know it’s not—I mean I thought—or no, I didn’t think—” A hand slaps across his mouth, the rest of Eldar’s apologies and excuses trapped behind pale indigo lips. Lance’s own are smiling. 

“I love you,” he says, all rose-scented, pink lips on blue, tearing eyes that spill more than happiness upon silver streaked cheeks. “I love you, you idiot, so much,” he says again and again, curling into Eldar’s arms as he rocks him and hushes him. “But if you’re saying what I think you’re saying—” he looks to Eldar’s eyes, but quickly looks away, the pigment of his cheeks darkening with every word spoken. “But we can’t, we’re in the middle of a war—”  
“Don’t think about that,” Eldar says, sealing Lance’s words with a chaste kiss and another because he forgot to breathe beforehand. He’s forgotten how to breathe period, but he’ll take this moment if Lance will join him in his stardust fantasy of _family_ and _future_ and _forever after._

“First we will have to marry.”  
“Marry?”  
“A human custom. Marriage. Like a celebration, where we promise our ever-afters to one another,” Lance said, speaking slow, as he thought of how to explain to Eldar who had only know the ceremony of mate-binding. Heartmates had their own ceremony, so maybe it was like this _marriage_ that Lance spoke of.

“Haven’t we already promised ourselves to one another?” Eldar asks, allowing himself to steal a kiss. “Yes, we have. Marriage on Earth isn’t just a celebration for the bride and groom —the two that are marrying into one another— but it’s a chance to invite friends, family to celebrate too. Much like a feast, but with music and dancing and alcohol.”

“Then we shall marry,” Eldar says, because it is simple.  
Lance says nothing, but blushes deeply, caught up in the love-struck look Eldar wears, shared with his heartmate as they hold each other in their arms. 

“We shall marry and we shall build our family.”  
“I can’t conceive,” Lance begins, but it’s a thinly veiled _‘no’_ that Eldar won’t listen to. “Then _Anna’edain,”_ he says like it is simple, because it is simple. If Lance wants to be _Ani,_ to be a father, then Eldar will give him the gift of fatherhood. Because it is simple.  
_“Anna’edain,”_ Eldar whispers again, like a love song. To give the gift of parents to a child who has lost their own to death.

 _“Anna’edain,”_  
And Lance, entranced by his heartmate’s affection is pulled into the fantasy dream too. He is smiling soft, all glitter eyes and sapphire smiles as he leans down to press a soft kiss to the corner of Eldar’s mouth. “How many will we have?”  
“As many as you like?”  
“And what of their names.” 

Eldar grins up at Lance, his mouth playing into a brighter smile, He flips them, without warning, so that Lance is beneath him, pressed into their nest of warmth and love, looking back up at him with playful smiles.  
“We will have strong sons who fight alongside their fathers, and fight with them from time to time. There will be _Nikerym_ and _Faroth,_ great warriors who are loved and respected. _Celeb,_ who is kind and doesn’t wish to fight, but has a fiery temper when his brothers push him too far.” Eldar laughs at the thought, nosing along Lance’s jaw, his voice quietening as he speaks soft, delicate, “And our daughters, _Tuilë_ and _Elin,_ will be as beautiful as Spring. As kind as the stars.”  
His words are strong, steady, sure that that is the future laid out for them. And Lance, impossible falling in love even more, is enraptured by his _Arenphine’s_ words. 

“I want to meet them.” 

Eldar lifts his eyes, a fraction, staring into Lance’s misting ones, all love-shining, hope-filled, summer soft light.  
“And you will my love. You will.”

Eldar had already seen it a thousand times, in dreams and day-thoughts that took his attention when he wasn’t aware. He had seen Lance at play with young ones at his feet, seen the two of them and their children curled up in their nest as Lance’s words weave stories to lead them beyond the veil, like him, and visit all those wonderful places in his mind.  
He had seen Lance crying as he held their son, the two of them apologising over thoughtless words and crossed arms that would never be strong enough to keep a parent’s love from his child. He had seen Lance dancing with their daughter, holding her in his arms and spinning her around until they are dizzy and cannot stand. 

Eldar has seen Lance in his dreams, one of his own undershirts hanging loosely off his _Arenphine’s_ shoulders as he stands there, soft hair in disarray. He is smiling, one of those genuine smiles that is all colour, no shade. Their youngest perches on his hip, babbling and pushing his chubby fingers into Lance’s hair, tugging on his fringe to make Lance pull faces at him, until Lance grabs one and uses Celeb’s hand to point at Eldar, stood casual in the doorway.  
Celeb sees him, already making grabby hands at his _Ani,_ Lance obliging to the squirming kit, closing the distance so Eldar can take his son and hold him tight. _“He’s missed you,”_ Lance laughed when Celeb made a plan of attack, tugging on Eldar’s fur, trying to catch his ears as they bat away the young child’s hands. _“I’ve missed him,”_ Eldar had smiled, catching Lance’s eyes and lips in the same movement. _“And you too.”_

_“Eirla fulthaine.”_  
_“Berethyl naertho”_

That was happiness. That was the future Eldar wanted with Lance. Love, family, peace.  
_Eternal._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Soon came the time for them to part.  
Tiredness and a longing held each other closer for just that moment longer, but the clock steals that too and the peace of daydreams love and lust cannot be there forever when a war waits upon their doorstep.

Yet, when Lance pulls himself from his daydream, he is lighter. Freer.  
Nothing absolute has changed. The Solnha have not amassed an army that will certify their victory, the Galra have not surrendered nor have they been defeated. But still, the air is warmer, pain of loss is easier to accept in this moment, the future lies endless with possibility. 

Lance’s smile feels fuller, happier, _real._  
And it’s all thanks to his heartmate. 

For Lance, he had never considered family. It hadn’t approached his bubble he built around himself, friends, school, the future job, the future someone he’d chase till the ends of the earth. He had never considered being loved back. Sure, there were wet dreams a plenty to sate any budding teenager’s hormonal desires, and there plenty of cute guys that Lance could fantasise with.  
But reciprocated love? Reciprocated fantasies? _The future?_

Lance hadn’t ever really thought about it. Sure, when Maya announced her pregnancy, Lance got caught up in the celebrations and excitement, the gentle wistful want of a child of his own greeting him for days after. But he never really thought about it, never really considered it as a real-life goal when everything around him was school, grades, Shiro, exams, Garrison, Keith, Shiro-missing, Keith-missing, _Lance missing…_

But with Eldar, family was possible. Being a father, having a child to snuggle in his arms, coo at, laugh with, rock to sleep as the sun went down and the stars came out… 

Lance dressed himself in comfortable silence, aware of eyes upon him. Teasingly, he ignored the way Eldar watched him, admiring his lover’s body, admiring the _marks_ he left upon Lance’s golden skin from their short, but precious time together. There was no rush from his part, not even when Lance twirled just for him, bearing the few layers needed for the warm branching halls of Home Tree’s hearth.  
The cloak lay light on his back, curling around him as he twirled again, watching the way Eldar stared transfixed, a snaking tongue wetting his own lips unconsciously. 

“If I give in, there will be no leaving here,” Lance says, a falsity to his tone that Eldar hears instantly. He takes himself from their nest, catching Lance in his arms, another coming to cup his cheek to steal another moment. Lance simply holds a finger between them. “We can’t,” he says, his tone brittle-snow creeping in. Shadow doesn’t follow, so Eldar’s worry is not intense, but still he knows his own scent sours when Lance casts him a knowing look. “Don’t pout,” he teases, trying for their earlier peace.  
It is still there; the light gossamer and veiled behind the moment of truth before Lance casts aside his freedom for Valion once again. 

Suddenly, a knock on the door sounds the presence of another. A moment of hesitation and the door opens to reveal Nye, stern but calm. He graces the other to with a smile and a salute; one arm firmly placed across his chest, the ball of his fist settled over his heart. “The others are ready, Valion.” He lowers his head in sign of respect, and giving more than necessary as per the customs of the Hycis. It also had something to do with the fact that the Hycis hold Valion in great revere for saving all their people, but no matter how many times Lance argues it wasn’t just him, but the entirety of Solnha, they have plenty of points to dispute his own.  
It wasn’t long until Lance gave up on fighting. It didn’t hurt anyone anyway if they kept bowing to him. Even if it did make him feel a little uncomfortable when they did. 

Eldar watched his lover shift, taking the mantle of Valion upon his shoulders once more. There is a look in his eye that changes him. A reverence and a space between himself and everyone around him, that allows Lance to stay focused on his duties.  
“Thank you. If you’re returning to them, tell them I’m, on my way.” Nye nods, bows, and closes the door behind him. 

“Another tour of the Home Tree?” Eldar teases, but his playful tone gets a shake of the head and a small smile that is barely anything more than a push of lips. 

“I have to hurry,” he says to no one in particular, a hand carding through his hair in attempts to settle the feathering nest it has become. “Irian has returned with heads of the Pinyon Treaty. They are allies of the Ongar, but before they give us their support in this war, the _Saults_ thought it would be a good idea to invite them over for Sunday brunch.”  
He’s grumbling to himself, pulling of his midnight cloak in favour of the under armour that would hide his chest and the growing bouquet of scars that traced white marks up his skin. 

“It’s only a formality—”  
“A formality I wish the others could deal with. I’d rather be with Ryul in the mess hall, or with Or’ in communications, or—”  
“Or Gereen, scouting _Genwar.”_

Lance turned, eyes meeting Eldar’s that fixed him with a look that told him all the words used in their last argument. It wasn’t one that needed readdressing again. Lance turned away. He was unable to see the sympathy Eldar wore, only listening instead to a low and lonely sigh. Eldar hated seeing his lover still at the mercy of a fear he thought had already been accepted.  
But Lance could never just accept and move on. It wasn’t in his nature, to give up and let go, to accept a defeat so easily, even if it meant accepting the deaths of three of his closest friends and another who so easily slot into their rag tag team of heavy-hitting warriors. 

“There are other things that are more sensible to worry about, like the imminent threat of the Galra.”  
Eldar moves behind him, the sound of feet, the shift of his tail dragging on the polished rock floor. A hand steadies itself on Lance’s shoulder. “We are in the midst of a war. We know that the Galra will come, we know they will and we cannot stop the inevitable, nor can we know for certain when they attack will greet us on our doorstep. It could be tomorrow, it could be movements, phoeb to come.” 

Lance felt his back itch with the fear, a different emotion making his voice tight. “I do not want to be afraid of them Eldar. Not when I do not have time to spare thinking of them when there are more—”  
“Don’t say there are more pressing matter,” the taller interrupted, the hand on Lance’s shoulder tightening together with the raise of his voice. This isn’t an argument he wants to have again, not so soon after their afternoon shared together. 

“But I can’t—”  
“Don’t say you can’t think of them. If not, then why are we even doing this? Saving people, finding a stronghold to set root, stand fast and strike back?” Eldar hadn’t meant for his words to come out so harsh, but they had. 

The pause that followed said everything that shouldn’t be said, Eldar already wrapping all his arms around his lover, before the cold air could creep between their beings and leave them will an emptiness that would only fester space. 

_“No, no,_ I didn’t mean it,” he says nosing Lance’s nape, leaving light, butterfly kisses beneath his unruly hair, tracing one love mark to the next, all the while whispering apologies. He didn’t want them to separate like this, leaving Lance with bad thoughts in his mind. Not after all he had confessed. 

_“Arenphine?”_

Eldar rubbed circles into Lance’s back, humming softly, aware the tense atmosphere was still about them. Fading, but still in the air.  
Lance didn’t want to fight either, and admitting a ceasefire was easier than getting an apology that wasn’t needed. “I want us to thrive, as a people, I want the Solnha to not only survive this war, but come out victorious against the Empire. We’re still young, but just as Voltron formed Alliances, I want us to as well. It’s why we’re not fighting at the moment, but seeking allies and offering help to the civilisations closest to us. But still, is it really enough?” 

Eldar hummed in understanding, not speaking to allow Lance to continue. “I want so much for all of them. I want them to be alive as well,” he says, not even needing names for Eldar to know who he’s talking about. 

“But it’s hard.” 

Lance sighs into his hands, leaning back into Eldar’s embrace as his guard is lowered again, seeking the comfort of their togetherness. It was with Eldar he didn’t have to retain the pretences he would adopt as ‘Valion.’ With Eldar, he could relax and be Human again; one that had secrets and insecurities, wants and wishes that may seem folly to some, but to him, they’re important.  
Eldar would listen, and even if he had nothing to say, or knew not what should be said, at least he listened. And sometimes that was enough for Lance. 

“I can’t be Lance and I can’t be Valion at the same time.”  
“Valion isn’t a person Lance, _it is a title._ A title given to you because you understand this war more than the rest of us. Until you came, we had no purpose, no goal that wasn’t just surviving till the end of the day. But now…” 

Eldar took Lance by the hand, taking him to the balcony that looked down from their private quarters to Home Tree’s hearth, where the bonfire roared far below. They could see aliens eating lunch, hear their laughter and the buzz of idle conversation bubbling up to the top room of the caverns. Walkways and stairs around the room showed more denizens either hard at work or passing through, navigating the halls of the new home that Valion had secured for them.  
“Look at what we’ve become. You called us young, and yes we are. But look at how far we’ve come in the two movements since the day you took the mantle.”  
Pride filled Eldar’s voice as he looked to his lover, catching a moment of two lips before pulling back to marvel at their progress. “Under your leadership, we freed the Hycis from _Genwar,_ the Ongarites offered us a planet, a planet Lance, to call our own. You have guests waiting for you, to here of your efforts and the strength that drives you as Valion. Look at what you have done. And there is still so much more than you can do, as Lance.” They’re eyes met, filled with love and a sweetness Lance never wanted to lose. 

“But never think Valion outshines you. Valion is simply the trophy of your effort. You shouldn’t feel like you become less of yourself, because, _it’s not true._ No one else here deserves the title and no one here will ever think of taking it from you.”  
He kissed him again, trying to convey what words couldn’t. 

And Lance heard it. Heard every word, understood ever caress as hands held his body tighter, palms finding skin, lips on lips as the closeness held the boy tight. Lance smiled as he pulled back, the motion deepening as his own heavy breaths matched Eldar’s, who remained red faced and wanting; as if they hadn’t spent the last five hours making love. 

“Take your clothes off.” 

“What?” Eldar raised an eyebrow, his loving smile vanishing at the odd demand. “I said take your clothes off. If being Valion has any perks, it is being in charge. No one can tell me I can’t spend the rest of the day in bed with my _Arenphine.”_

And with that, Lance grabbed Eldar by the wrist, leading him back to their nest, stripping them both of clothes as he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE CLOSE TO CHRISTMAS AND I ONLY HAVE TWO CHAPTERS FINISHED!  
> I'm going to knuckle down and try to get these done guys, so there is no relapse in uploads. Fingers crossed my brain stays on my side this time, or at least in the room rather than finding anything and everything else to concentrate on.  
> Wish me luck~ x


	41. A Want For The Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eldar doesn’t want Lance to be burdened by the weight of Valion alone. The talk of their future is a comfortable distraction for both, visited enough times that Lance is happy to venture down the foreseeable path, and finds himself happy with what he finds.

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

They don’t leave the room until nightfall. There was no great need to – Roamer having sated the Pinyon Treaty’s desire to meet Valion with a tour of the Home Tree and a little white-lie spiel about their Leader away, leading a raiding party on request of the Ongar. The Ongar Delegation who were also present, played their part well and agreed to the lie, vehemently, taking the spotlight to gush Valion’s praises like he wasn’t skipping out on politics to feel love in the deepest parts of his body. 

Of course, Valion cannot put off the meeting forever, and agrees to the decision that they’ll be met in communion with everyone else, in the centre of the Home Tree, beneath the pale Glo moon where they could dine in the comfort of everyone’s happiness. It made Valion feel more comfortable if anything, treating the whole affair as an informal lunch get-together sort of thing, rather than the introductions of leaders from impressive civilisations, some older than the stars themselves. 

“Hail Valion.”  
Lance bowed his head as he descended the curving walkway to the ground floor, Eldar with him as they headed to where the other leaders already sat eating.  
The head table was one close to the bonfire, although not close enough the boy would fear being scorched by its flame, (it was the designated eating area he had been given for the sake of certain formalities he was sure Roamer had made up in hopes to tease him, as well as the Hycis’ nonsensical reverence of him). 

Those already seated, or passing by tables with stacked food and drinks, turned, honouring him with salutes, hails and the like; the murmuring of his name light on the lips of those who had yet to see him this close. They all held him in awe, some from hearing tales of his deeds as a Paladin, many more realising them to be truths having witness his victory over Gereen. It hadn’t been long after that tales of his conducts had spread.  
Embellishment grew here and there, and suddenly Lance was an undefeatable foe, capable of defeating the Galra single handed. It was probably one such rumour that had summoned the Pinyon Treaty Leaders to his hearth. 

“Valion,” Matriarch greeted when Valion came close enough, a brush of hand from forehead to the point of her chin. Valion replied with the Draora custom, repeating the motion to the other to her left and then onto Nye and the Hycis who were telling the Pinyon Leaders of the Human’s valiant attack on _Genwar._  
The looks on their faces varied from awestruck to horror, and others slight bemusement at the notion that this small, thin creature with only two arms and two legs had taken on the Galra horde and come out of it, mostly unscathed. Valion didn’t bother with making a show of strength for their sakes. If they thought him a monkey to do tricks for their entertainment then they were wrong. It didn’t matter if the one that sat opposite him was the Second Son of the Second Son of his most esteemed, high ruler count _something or other_ of the Peragm Legion.  
All Valion cared for is support, or the understanding that the Solnha were not enemies. Neither would they be looked down upon, or attacked by these idiots in white robes that thought too much of themselves. 

Lance didn’t like the Second Son, nor any of their like, watching without expression as he was cast distasteful sneer after distasteful sneer. If Rayon was here, the dick would be choking on his whiskers. Uilt’xen would’ve reeled him out and carried him by his scruff back to his ships with fair warnings not to return.  
The thoughts bring a smile to his lips and a tightness to his heart. 

“Is there something you find amusing?” 

Lance looks away from where he had been listening to the stranger talk, to the Second Son, vying for attention. “Amusing?”  
“You laughed. I was asking if you found the story of the Galra’s attack amusing.” The Second Son clicks his teeth, his whiskers rippling; his façade of calm broken by the ministrations of his face he can’t quite control. It’s like the way Eldar’s ears move involuntary to new sounds.

“I was thinking of my brother, and his reaction if he was here.”  
“Oh, and he would be entertaining to you. How so?” The challenge was thinly veiled. Lance ignored the looks sent his way, Roamer’s heightened pulse of light dancing across her skin in concern. Or perhaps warning. To who though it didn’t matter as neither were giving her their attention.  
Everyone is watching Valion and the Second Son.

“For starters, Rayon wouldn’t be as polite as myself. He doesn’t have the patience.” 

If the Second Son’s challenge was thinly veiled, Valion’s was an open invitation for an argument. Eldar and Viridall certainly didn’t need to hear Lance’s words to smell the distaste rolling off of him in thick, nausea waves.  
This meeting was to introduce the civilisations to one another and come to the agreement that neither were enemies, but instead possible allies against the Empire. Second Son was so far up on his high horse he didn’t consider Valion and his people to be much help. Neither did he realise that they would be a deadly enemy to make, considering the allies already made from _Nairn_ to _Symir_ and all the way to _Natrine,_ where the recent attack from the Galra had finally, _finally_ spurred the Daratrine into action.  
With their fleet alone, they’d be able to push the Pinyon Treaty back several star systems if they so wished. 

The others gathered knew this. Second Son, however, was just an idiot who thought himself immortal. 

“How about we have more food brought to us,” comes an interruption from the far side of the table, where Tho’xemae stands, the rippling dusting purple on his otherwise blush-skin, showing his disproval for the direction of his _Saults_ actions. The Solnha already have the Empire as enemies, they don’t need the Pinyon too.  
If only Second Son had as much sense to realise that his people couldn’t afford to piss off a… _willing_ ally.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara

“And here I thought you wanted peace for the Universe, not to start another war. Although, if that is your plan, at least let us finish off the Galra first,” Gereen said from the far side of the table, his words meant to irritate his Leader, which wasn’t good considering Valion’s near attack on the Second Son. He’s gone now, having been shipped back to his own planet with the clear instructions to his retainers that if the Second Son’s attitude is a representative overall attitude of the Peragm Civilisation, then the Solnha wouldn’t have any dealings with them, nor would they offer their support should the Galra decide to attack them first.

“I want allies I can trust, Gereen. If I can’t trust them then I won’t endanger the lives of my family for their sakes. You should know. You’ve been at the end of my blade before.”  
Valion’s biting tone silences the other, as well as any of the gathered that thought they would offer words, or ask their own questions concerning Valion’s attitude towards the party of could-be allies. 

“Still, do you think it wise to send him off in such a manner?” Fellfrir asked, which was unusual because Valion would’ve assumed she would be on his side with his no-bullshit response to being called out. “It didn’t matter how the others left. The Second Son had already made their decision not to side with us. If the others in their treaty agree, then that’s for them to consider. But if they want to side with a force that actively stands against the Galra, then that’s theirs to consider too. I won’t order any nonlogical demands to break apart their treaty with _Peragm._ That business is between themselves.”  
“And did you, perhaps, tell them that?”  
“I did.” 

Roamer took the spotlight as she approached the table once again, a glance to all gathered, her eyes lingering especially on Lance; the way his body slouched idle in his chair, eyes fixed unseeing on nothing in particular. It wasn’t unusual to see this, the times only increasing with the weight of Valion pushing upon his shoulders.  
Tho’ had already deemed it to be a Human’s natural defence to becoming overloaded with thought and emotion, such already seen when Lance was faced with demons beyond the veil that haunted him even in sunlight hours. 

“Did they accept the dismissal… lightly?”  
Roamer crossed her pantacles, a huff of derision mirroring Valion’s earlier mood. “The one that called out Valion was giving a sermon as we headed for his ships, trying to unsettle anyone who listened that we wouldn’t be able to defend against the Galra. One of his handlers proved him wrong with the very fact of us being here, and chewed him out much more eloquently than Valion or I ever could. If anything, I think that the second son of the second son of the High Grace of _Peragm_ was simply a ruse, and those around him were there to listen and report back.”  
“Well let’s hope so. If it is left to that _yinvard_ he’d probably order the treaty to completely ignore Solnha’s existence. Either that, or spin that tale of us as some sort of threat.”  
“Wish I could’ve given him one,” Gereen grumbled from his chair, staring at the far door of which sooner the delegation had been led out. 

Tho’xemae smiled behind crossed arms. “I didn’t realise you cared so strongly about defending us Gereen. I’m flattered, as are many, I have no doubt.” Gereen just raised and arm, and shoved a fist in the Daratrine’s direction, laughing at the rippling murk upon his skin at the offensive gesture. They continued to throw silent obscenities at one other, ignoring Matriarch who brought the discussion back to allies, and the future of the Solnha if others were to react with the same disbelief in their strength. 

“We’re not going to gain everyone’s trust,” Eldar spoke up. “And we don’t have to ask everyone, only a select few. When word spreads around, and they learn that we’re not only fighting the Galra, but open to protecting planets and people that can support us, either with supplies, ships or intel on enemy movement, then we’ll have others reaching out to us.  
_“Peragm_ treated us the way they did because they are an old planet, spread vast over many systems, but they think too much of themselves to be above the Empire’s reach. That’s their fault, but they are of few of the same power and mindset.”  
He has the attention of the entire table, with even Tho’ and Gereen halting their quarrel to lend him their ears.

“We needn’t worry ourselves with expanding too much too soon, lest we fold under the weight. For now, my main concern is securing a steady food source for everyone. I know the crops in the lower caves are growing faster than calculated, and once the settlement chambers are finished being carved out, the construction of more crop caves will begin.”  
“Delphi and the others in the underwater lakes are happy where they are for now, but I don’t want to subjugate them to one cave. Then comes to the problem of providing them and the fishing ground more space without sacrificing structural integrity to the deep caves, and the time and energy spent on mining more when we need to farm, to mine, to focus on the internal edifice of the Solnha all whilst maintaining our position of strength in Space, _and_ fight the Galra all at the same time.”  
“And pissing of the Second Son wasn’t really in our favour,” Matriarch grumped, a scowl turned to Valion, holding him accountable for his earlier anger. 

But Valion isn’t there. 

His chair is empty and has long since been discarded, ever since Roamer claimed the attention of those gathered, leaving him to sneak away for the peace and quiet of solitude, in which to calm his many restless thoughts. He had slipped away to the main staircase, planning to retire to his chambers, knowing that there were very few that would barge in without his permission, meaning it would give him privacy.  
Yet when Valion reached his and Eldar’s quarters, he unknowingly sauntered right past, continuing up towards the look-out posts and the tunnels that led outside towards the upper mountain and the ice fields. He didn’t know he was being called there, until stood upon the ledge, overlooking _Caldara’s_ horizon when he happened upon a girl sitting beside him.  
She doesn’t hold her normal shape; her legs longer and limp like tails, no arms about her person but instead a veil of starlight that rose and fell around her, as if she were underwater.  
Valion stood beside her, but before he could offer greeting, she spoke: 

_“I wanted to say I’m sorry, but I didn’t know how.”_  
“You needn’t apologise. There is nothing to apologise for.” 

Zaos turned her head, the pool of stars shimmering behind her in veil-like hair moving to soak into her gossamer skin. _“I do,”_ she says with strength, a cold, pale light in the stars that shine upon her face. _“If I was stronger, we could have saved them together.”_  
Valion sits beside her, letting his legs hang over the rock, facing the ice fields and the herd of wild beast that snuffle at the fresh fallen snow for grass or rocks, or whatever they choose to eat. There are young scampering about to play, mothers not needing to watch them, because there is nothing that can hurt the creatures here. Not even the two, spindle-legged strangers that watch from the rocks. 

_“I’m not as strong as they say. The stories,”_ Zaos explains, when Valion doesn’t understand. He knew many of the Solnha held Zaos in reverence, much like they did him; the visage of her being a mighty entity that brought luck and hope and strength unheard of.  
“I wouldn’t be alive without your strength,” because that is the truth, but not such Zaos will accept. _“But I’m not strong. I’m not powerful, like everyone wants me to be. I’m not immortal, I can’t even speak to others in their mind like I can with you. It’s because there is an ease of connectivity, like you are more my kind than any others.”_ As she says this, Zaos let’s her form twinkle like stars, until Lance sits beside his star-silhouette. _“You’re not the only one who’s mind calls to me, but none of the others are so powerful. It isn’t that they are weak, but you have a drive in you that has brought you so far from home, time and time again for everyone else’s sake but your own.”_

_“You are strong. I am not. So, I need to apologise, for deluding you, for making you think—”_

“You don’t,” Valion says, voice soft and barely heard above the wind that howls on the mountainside. It is useless to try and convince Zaos otherwise, as she speaks to him again, not needing to raise her voice as it echoes warmly in his mind.  
_“But if had held on, if I had held Orvis back, and kept your pain—”_ She stops when Valion turns to face her, expression plain. He couldn’t smile while they spoke of the family he has lost. He was still coming to terms with their deaths, but at least he had finally acknowledged they’d been lost, and was beginning to take the steps needed to heal. 

Lance reaches out, a hand taking Zaos’ own, recalling to many times when he had taken other’s hands to offer comfort; Victoria, Or’, Uilt’xen, Keith, Eldar…  
Zaos accepts the memories to the explanation of comfort, fitting her own fingers between his, curling her hand until there is warmth between their palms and the pulsing light of a shining star. 

They sit in silence, together, needing no words between them; just the faint emotions shared through touch, Zaos feeling all of Valion’s hurt, regret, pain but also his hope for the future. His fear too, but hope, confidence in his family and the courage to face whatever trials may be thrown at them along the way. 

They sit in silence, together, offering comfort and accepting it, as the wild beasts with their snow-white fur move on, not so much as a glance back towards the spindle-leg strangers that sit silent, watching from the rocks.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara

It wasn’t a secret that the Human had changed somewhat, and many of those close to him noticed. They said nothing at first, even when the _Saults_ where in council, and met with glares and hard-set eyes. With the privacy Valion gave them with his own departure, another odd notion none had considered he do, as if he was abandoning talks of Solnha’s future, they were free to raise their concerns with Eldar, and Tho’ who had taken up with talking to Lance, not only for his own research on the versatile, apex predator of a species that is so much more inter-dimensional than he had previously thought. 

Even with Lance’s willingness to comply to questions, there was a change about him since given the name Valion and taking the weight of _Tae-Sault_ until Valion was different to Lance.  
It was a question all the others held on their lips, knowing and not knowing if Valion was Lance. Because he was of course, was and wasn’t all at once. But then, Valion wasn’t Lance. Because Lance was warm and comforting, with a smile whether it reached his eyes or not, instilling everyone with a confidence that, no matter the odds, if Lance believed they could do it, then they would do it, nothing to fear.

Valion feared. He was hesitant, thought before judgement, was not brash and loud and full of emotions that flurried like snow, leaving trails of scent in the air. Where Lance left his mark, Valion only left the emptiness where he once was. It was the emptiness taken from losing family, over and over; shaped by loss of love and gain of responsibility that took him and asked for calculated, logical decisions.  
There was no regret at asking the universe of him, but all felt the splinter of mourning for the bright blue light of Lance. 

But there is that light, although dimmed and small, there it is in Lance’s eyes, held in Eldar’s arms. He holds him close, wanting to hold him longer until the flame of his being is once more a roaring bonfire of stead-fast strength, bright-bold bravura that led the numbers into a future he had seen beyond the reality of this moment. 

Eldar holds him, because when he does, he can see Lance beyond the mantle of Valion. He knows Lance won’t be lost to it, and it will take time for the Human to heal from the hurt of losing, not only his Solnha family, but Voltron’s and Earth’s, all in one lifetime.  
But he had Eldar, and everyone here on _Caldara,_ to pull him back from losing himself. 

“Stop doing that.”  
“Doing what?”  
“That!” Lance says, waving a hand in his lover’s face. “That searching thing you do with your nose! You never take my word as absolute, you always try and sniff out the lie.” Eldar raised an eyebrow, noting that the exasperation was heavy, yet fake. “It doesn’t need to take my nose to know you’re not acting as yourself. Contrary to what you believe, Lance,” Eldar says, voice dropping as he leans in, “but you’re a terrible liar.” 

The kiss is short and chaste, but enough that Lance’s mood mellows slightly, the stormy greyish blue of winter storms washing back into the pale of morning skies. “I hate you.”  
“I hate you too.” They kiss again, shorter than before; just a press of the lips, before Eldar pulls back. 

They’re back together, Eldar having found Lance talking with the Hycis who were mining the Southern living chambers. He had been marvelling at their hard work, commending them on their wonderful construction with praise the bled into his eyes, until they sparked with wonderment Eldar had feared his lover had lost, along with the other’s on _Genwar._

“I wasn’t lying,” Lance pouted, earning himself another kiss that broke into silly, hiccupped giggles. 

This was Lance. This was the boy that Eldar fell in love with, pranking the crew back on the _Godolphin,_ the too-curious Human who would get lost on scouting missions, sneeze at random moments and almost give the maintenance team several heart attacks. This was Lance, who wouldn’t care for his medical stats when testing food from the mess hall, wouldn’t care for his own injuries to win himself a spar, be it against Eldar, or Rayon or Uilt’xen… 

This was Lance, who was happy and hopeful; the same boy that Eldar wished to build a family with. One day. When peace reigned and the hate of their enemies was nothing but a memory.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara

There was a secret whispering through the tunnels. Valion heard the ends of hushed voices as he moved from his sleeping chambers to the Training Hall several floors down; aware of watchful eyes that followed him before they, and their owners, scrambled away into the concealing darkness of branching tunnels. 

At first, Valion simply ignored them, thinking they to be young aliens that had yet to really meet him face to face. Their actions reminded him of schoolyard dares, like getting Kaiden to kiss Xenia, because they all knew he had a crush on her. 

But as the whisperings continued, Valion begun to understand that it was nothing like his childhood memories. Needless to say, it was something that filled the Human with apprehensive worry. 

At first, he thought the whispers were his own imagining. It wasn’t like the notion of others talking behind his back was new; having faced as such in school, in the Garrison, even with the team in space when they planned to replace him—  
No. No. That wasn’t true. That was Anadón. And it isn’t the time to consider such things.

So, Lance doesn’t.  
He pushes his mind to the present, eyes trailing after a feathered tail that snuck away into a stairwell as he descended the main trunk of the Home Tree, heading towards the ship decks, where there was plenty of room to train with the new and improved shift-blade that Bumi had finally constructed him. He had been eager to try it out, after the young Trigamon gushed so much about the improved shifts and reduced time lag… but such thoughts vanished when Valion heard the whispers and felt the eyes. 

The last time he felt anything as similar as the present was back on the _Godolphin,_ when he and Eldar had first begun their dance of admiration of one another. Then, the whispers that followed him in the corridors had been nothing but idle gossip, breathed into life by Ryul and Foci’s bets and the teasing of Lance’s spar-mates.  
This held an entirely different feeling.  
And when Valion finally reached the hearth of the Home Tree, the sudden hush of those gathered told him that the gossip wasn’t just in his head. 

Those gathered quickly tried to disperse, many of them trying to return to the airs of normality. Valion spied a familiar face among the throes, snapping his fingers at Dart before the Bo’ Hunt could slink away.

“Valion,” he said with a curt nod, nervousness evidence in the way his fingers flexed mid-salute. His eyes glanced about him, seeking refuge but none came to his aid and he was left to the tried patience of the Solnha’s Warrior. He even flashed worried eyes to Valion, silently asking why he had been singled out in such a manner, and perhaps he’d be allowed to flee before the other thought to consider anger as a part of… _whatever_ was about to unfold. 

Valion didn’t acknowledge the unspoken question, leaving Dart to remain standing sullen and worried as Valion joined him in his personal space, just before the hearth-fire. 

Effective diplomacy skills long-since used up with the not-to-recent meeting with the second son of the second son of _whoever,_ meaning Valion cut no corners and jumped to the point.  
“Something is happening, _or has happened,_ and I don’t know about it. That changes now.” 

Dart winced, despite Valion’s quiet tone and the subconscious thought to keep his voice and expression neutral. “Ask Eldar?” It came out more of a question than an answer, and of course Dart was diverting Valion’s attention to another that could stand-fast against the Human without repercussions. It was effective, despite its obviousness, but Valion didn’t care. Not when he spied Eldar by the table raised on the stage, familiar faces about him and an exuberant grin wide on his lips, even as Gereen was the other with whom he shared conversation. 

“Thank you, Dart.” Valion left him there, heading to his lover for answers and most likely, more questions, but the whisperings had unsettled something in his mind, and he didn’t wish for the feeling to remain. 

Valion gets barely a step within reach of the table when Eldar spies him, already talking before Valion can ask what has got the crowds gathered, milling about where the chairs are taken up, some leaning over the railing of the railing of the stairs that stretched up to the higher levels. Now Valion pays attention, the hall is _packed._

“Eldar…?”  
“Arenphine, here,” Eldar says, pushing past Viridall and Ryul talking quick, ignoring Foci who calls out as he gathers Lance in his arms. “I thought about what we said and I thought about it. But right now, screw the war and screw the worry.”  
“Eldar I don’t—”

“I said I wanted you for forever. I said I wanted to marry you.” He pulls back, beaming, brighter than the sun that hangs above them, eyes medallion gold, his fur flecked with silver as he leans in again, scenting Lance and hoping to calm him as confusion is drawn from the depths. “Y-you mean this is—” He says, because he _thinks_ he knows what Eldar is saying but he’s not quite sure—

“Marry me Lance.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara

The wedding wasn’t so much a wedding as it was a surprise party. Of course, none of the Solnha had privy to the knowledge of wedding customs, so there were no carefully crafted vows, no speeches of heartfelt devotion and no sealing kiss.  
The only thing reminiscent of an Earthen wedding was the feast that would’ve followed, with food that wouldn’t go amiss from the excess of crops and the Ongarites’ generous shipments that saw everyone sated and then some.  
_Kirkuk_ wasn’t to go amiss either and soon all that gathered were merry with the mood, be it in chairs, on tables, leaning against the railings of balconies or dancing to the tunes of what could only be called music. 

Lance sat beside Eldar, content to remain close, laughing along with Foci, caught up in the thought that maybe he is one of the few Human’s who was ever surprised with their own sort-of-wedding.  
The details don’t matter. All that does is that Lance enjoys himself, free from Valion’s grasp for the moment in which he can join festivities with his family as they celebrate the future, not just for Eldar and himself, but for the future of the Solnha too. 

There is no first dance for Lance or Eldar. There are no toasts from friends of family, there are no shaking of unsteady hands as Lance’s voice stops in his throat, no _“I do”_ to echo in the large hall for all to hear Lance’s promise of his forever to Eldar, and his in return.  
They don’t need such things to be happy. No rings to remind them of the vow written upon their hearts. No one kiss to be more precious than the rest. 

All Lance wants in his moment is laughter. Tears of joy and amusement as he listens to tales and spins his own, thanking all the stars in the sky for being blessed with this day, all the days before and all those to come. 

The night wears on, full of smiles and laughter. They share memories with old faces and new, share drinks and laughter, the moment when the music calls to Lance like he’d never felt before and he drags Fellfrir and Gereen from their chairs, to tease them all.  
He teaches them the conga line, the Mexican wave and just for laughs, the macarena. But they all dance and they all enjoy it, the night passing into early morn as the noise begins to dim, many retiring from their consumption of _Kirkuk._ Few have retired even sooner, having forgetting themselves and testing their strength against Brea, Nye and Tanur alike in rounds of _Edegil._ No matter, they were enjoying themselves.

It is in the growing quiet that finds Eldar and Lance together in the space of no one and nothing, swaying, more than dancing in time to a song that is soft and slow and undoubtedly romantic, but Lance isn’t really listening. All his focus is on his _Arenphine_ before him.  
They’re not dancing, the movement of their bodies is just an excuse to be close to one another. Neither thinks they will ever tire of being close to their heartmate; Lance, feeling Eldar’s gentle, petal-soft fur under the pads of his fingers. Eldar, feeling the contour of Lance’s body held against him.  
To think once, they were blushing maidens when they had come this close. But now it’s like coming home. 

_Home._

“So,” Lance says with a smile, his fingers playing with the short tufts of fur at the nape of Eldar’s neck, “we’re married then?”  
“If you’ll have me,” Eldar whispers, leaning in.  
“For eternity.” 

Lance tilts his head up, catching the warmth of Eldar against his lips, his eyes fluttering closed so that he can focus on feeling Eldar against him, focus on the feelings in his heart and in Eldar’s before him, beating in time to their song, to the moment that was so much more precious than any exchange of vows, to the moment—

_“Valion!”_

The music is silenced by another voice, taut with tension, so loud and intrusive that Lance tore himself from Eldar’s arms to cover his ears. Everyone around him is pulled from their own worlds, staring up to the pale Glo moon. 

_“There are ships inbound. Valion, it’s the Galra.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE!!!  
> I wanted to upload this earlier, but I was out on a present run. Hope you enjoy this!


	42. A Want To Triumph

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War has come to the home of the Solnha. There is no time to question how they were found, only the time to fight and defend their home, and defend the hopes of a future that could be upon Caldara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!  
> A gift for all of you.
> 
> Music That Inspired Me:  
>  _Last Of The Light_ and _Flight Of The Silverbird_ — by Two Steps From Hell
> 
> Beta-ed by the wonderful Greyisles!

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

“Get them out now. I want them airborne, all of them, before the damn ships break atmosphere, or we’ll all be sitting ducks,” Valion yells to the _Saults_ that run away from him, heading to their ships that are waiting in their hangars. Only the _Wearn_ e hangs in the air, Roamer having been preparing to set out mid-celebration, now her and her crew finding themselves as the first line of defence to the Home Tree as the Galra djalg bomb through the clouds, unleashing unholy hellfire upon her ship. 

_Rexx-Marth_ and the _Dawnil_ as well as half a squadron of _Flardryn_ were still off world, having targeted a nearby Galran trade line. Now Valion was considering the trade route to be a trap, hoping that Irian and Cersaelk were okay. 

“Nye, get those that can’t fight to the upper halls. If they target the main base they’ll be trapped if the halls collapse.” Nye made to argue, having been on hand at the construction of the Home Tree’s branches and roots. It wasn’t that Valion didn’t trust the Hycis and Draora for their mining expertise, but he didn’t want to take any chances.  
“I want them on the mountain top and in the tunnels beyond the ridge. If this base falls, they can flee into the ice fields.” 

They had already planned contingencies in case of an attack, with the children and the elderly falling back to safety in the upper halls. The remaining Solnha had been given roles, many to work on the ships or pilot their own _Draos_ or Daratrine _Flardryn_ ships, the Trigamon taking position as the gunners on the untested, untried defence of the lower fields where the Trigamon had been installing high-powered missile systems that could breach the atmosphere if necessary. The only problem was they were sitting ducks without a functioning shield system. 

“Valion, I’m reading more signatures pulling out of hyperjump,” Ygrainne wails, her voice echoing around the base from where she and others still man the main communication hall, and the outlook post at the peak of the mountain. She’s asking him for orders, but he can’t reply; he has no equipment. Luckily for him, Bumi pushes through the throes of panicked Solnha, a _klick_ in his hand. “She told me to give this to you. It was for the missions, but it should work—” 

Valion doesn’t let him finish, already snatching the _klick,_ pressing it to his head, just above his ear, the device finding purchase on skin and remaining. Suddenly, Ygrainne’s voice is right next to him, rather than echoing around the base. _“—reading two large signatures, warships, behind them, seven support, no, no there are more—”_  
“Ygrainne, calm down,” Valion said, his words forced like an order, turning on the ball of his foot away from the crowd that tries not to let their emotions take over as they make to follow their roles in an attack simulation. 

But this isn’t a simulation.  
This is the real deal. 

Nye calls out, loud, sharp, ordering the old and young up the main staircase as per Valion’s orders, the rest heading towards the ship hold, others to the armoury before they take themselves to the ships to join the battle for _Caldara—_

_“EVERYONE BRACE!”_

Roamer’s words are the only warning before the entire Home Tree shakes; the Glo-sun trembling in its housing. Valion stared up, fearful it would fall, fearful of the questions that surrounded the shaking earth, his mind and voice yelling back, “what’s going on?”  
“Some sort of detonation device that didn’t explode properly. They’re still there. They were dropped from the outer atmosphere. The battleships deployed one each.” 

Valion didn’t question it, already pushing up the steps towards his quarters, following fleeing young that only had the words of mothers and fathers to comfort them before, they too, joined the War for _Caldara._  
He couldn’t stay to stow their tears, nor offer his own assurances that all would be okay. He was contending with his own fear, and the regret of a fleeting goodbye he and Eldar had shared just before the War had torn them apart. 

“Eldar? El, where are you now?” Valion calls, halfway up the Home Tree. He only hears the sounds of gunfire, the shaking of the Earth and Roamer’s instructions to carry out tactic plans as his guide to tell him what is going on beyond the safety of the mountain halls. 

Before Eldar can speak, his comms fizz with static, and a muttered curse from Ryul. “We’ve joined the fight. Fellfrir is right behind us. Many of the Draos are still being refuelled, but it won’t take long until they can join the fight.” Another explosion sounds, but with Eldar’s orders to return fire, there’s no chance to question if they are okay. 

Valion knows he has to join the battle himself, and continues to forge ahead, calling out to those that have let panic take their minds. “Get to your posts. Return fire and push that Galra back.” 

The Human pushes on, worrying for his own detail that should be with him, following the contingencies that Roamer has set out for all of them. But there they are, waiting, with Iefyr, Jo’fir and Viridall, holding the rest of his armour, waiting for him outside the hangar near his own chambers. “Where’s Zaos?” he asked before he reached their side, but none has seen the star-child.  
In fact, neither had Lance all though-out the celebrations. 

Valion rushed to the edge of the balcony, looking down upon the flickering hearth and the few numbers of aliens still rushing to their posts, some still leading children up the main stairwell. No Zaos. Valion called out with his mind, but she didn’t reply. He couldn’t hear her, couldn’t feel her—

Another bomb shook the mountain, Valion holding tight to the balcony railing before he was thrown the hundred floors. “We have to go Valion, we cannot wait for her,” Iefyr shouts and he’s gone, through the doors of the hangar after Jo’fir who is already climbing into the white needle ship that Valion had grown accustom to flying after all these months. Then, it was Rayon and Kenmare who joined him in the cockpit. It wasn’t long ago, but a memory Valion couldn’t spare any conscious to latch onto and reminisce.  
He shoved it down with feelings of regret, letting the cacophony of war surround him once again. 

Another bomb and Valion followed his team, climbing into the ship after Viridall and the steps morphed back into a wall and the ships engines began to warm. 

Beyond the entrance to the hangar was endless white, the flurry of falling snow masking everything outside as another bomb struck and the settled snowdrift poured, cascading from the upper slopes. “Get us out there Jo’fir before they cause an avalanche and trap us in here.”  
There’s no chance. When Valion gave the order, the pilot hit the thrusters and the ship shot from the hangar, into the open air already filled with explosions as fire rained from the sky. 

The Galra had arrived.

They came with anger.  
They came seeking vengeance.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_[This is Ygrainne of the Solnha Alliance, speaking on all open frequencies. Under the order of Valion, all ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara._

_I repeat._

_All ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara._

_The Galra are here.]_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“INCOMING!”

Valion pulled the ship into a jack-knife dive to avoid the ion cannon that just skimmed their wings, before the Human pulled them back up, returning the ship on their trajectory to take them up towards the bridge of the forward battle cruiser. “Watch our six Viridall, before we get half a squadron of djalg that we can’t shake,” he warns, eyeing the swarming ships that act as a first-defence for their planned target. 

“A dozen, breaking away from the main ship,” Jo’fir warns, highlighting them on the main screen for Viridall and Iefyr to have an easier time targeting them. 

“Ion cannon recharging.”

“Roamer, you ready with the pulse?” Valion asks, falling into a scrambled flight pattern to avoid the directed laser fire that comes their way. “Ay Valion, just give us the word.” 

She’s hanging in the warship’s blind spot, her main worry fending off support ships that are raining down heavy fire. They know she’s up to something, but the only defence given are the three ships and two squadrons whilst the _Godolphin_ and _Fellmot_ steal the remainder of the fleet’s attention with the barrage of attacks. 

“Matriarch, I could use some help shedding off these biters on my tail,” comes a request, stealing Valion’s eyes as he watches the gleaming white of the _Godolphin_ be hidden under a steady stream of black smoke from her hull. djalg swarm her, firing on engines, some falling from the sky where the gunner’s hit their target. 

One line of laser fire hits the bridge. 

“El? El, are you okay?” 

Valion doesn’t realise he’s pulled the ship around until Eldar is telling him he’s fine, to get back to the battlecruiser before the ion cannon catches him off guard. “We’re fine _Arenphine._ Now go kick Galra ass before I have to do it for you.” 

The communication line is cut, but it’s not because the ship was destroyed, but because both Eldar and Valion cut it themselves. They can’t worry for their lover. Not here, not now, during battle when _everything_ is riding on their shoulders for the sake of victory. 

Valion turned his ship back towards the warship, crushing the controls under white-knuckle grasps as he pushed them past the djalg lines, close to the ship’s shielding. They needed to knock it out in a simultaneous attack with _Wearne_ to get the full effect and hopefully attack the entire ship at once. 

“Ion cannon full charged! Valion, they’re targeting us again.”  
“Doesn’t matter Jo’fir, we’ll take it out long before they get us in their sights.” 

Valion’s confidence wasn’t fake. His team knew that, but it didn’t quell their fears completely. Not that is should, but Valion didn’t have time to hold their hands as he careered under the hull of the ship, avoiding djalg fire and the ion cannon that would surely catch him if he waited in one place too long. 

“Roamer, I’m cutting it close with biters on my tail. We’re going to have to get this done in three ticks or we’re toast and everyone else is sitting ducks.”  
“Ready when you are.” 

“Fire it now!” 

Valion wasn’t in position when Roamer’s pulse travelled from the horns of _Wearne,_ but he was close enough to the mark that when his own rippling pulse fired back, the Galra warship got the full effect from both the rear and the bow. 

“What was that?” Iefyr asked, staring as the djalg nearest the battlecruiser began to fall from the sky. “A direct electromagnetic pulse,” Valion said, staring at the destruction with a pleased smile. 

The battleship was falling too, but slower. It would restart its engine long before it dropped to _Caldara’s_ surface.  
Still, the pulse had shut down their systems and would disorientate and disable the enemy for a few Dobosh; enough to throw whoever was in charge off guard for a few minutes. It wouldn’t last long, but is was long enough for the Solnha to do considerable damage. 

“Fellfrir, now!” 

That was all the Vhoadan needed, to open fire herself; the _Draos_ that had been defending her blindside joining in the slaughter, choosing to prey on the free-falling djalg before they too could restart their engines. Valion and Roamer didn’t stay out of it neither, turning guns and missiles and any fire power they could get their hands on to blast the forward battleship from the sky.  
With no defence, from shield or djalg-wall, the battleship has little choice when it takes all the damage the Solnha can deal, its demise sealed in fiery explosions that break it apart from the inside, the engines catching fire and adding to the mass of destruction that tears through the ship until it is nothing but debris, smoke and ash. 

“Yeah, that’ll teach them!” 

“Kill the Galra _culm!”_ The voices rejoice, laughing at the mistake of their enemy to only send two heavy-hitting warships to take out the Solnha, like they had no clue of the Alliance’s strength. It was down to Roamer’s tactics as well as the driving force the Solnha held. They were only few in number, but it just goes to show their own strength when the very few face-down a small fleet and deal a surprising amount of damage. 

The rear battleship is hesitant to fully enter the atmosphere, its position held to keep itself from the range of Bumi’s ground guns. But while one kept up continuous fire, it seemed the Trigamon had fitted upgrades in the ten Dobosh they had, and fitted in three, high-powered lasers resembling an ion cannon. 

The giant, circular hole in its hull was testament that that ship wouldn’t be leaving in one piece. 

But the victory was short-lived when a warning sounded in several places at once, long-range scanners picking up signals from incoming ships.  
“Fall back. Regroup,” Ryul yelled over the comms as shadows flashed into existence, Galra ships falling out of hyper-jumps until they too, began to descend into _Caldara’s_ atmosphere. Valion cursed in anger, realising the first group was just probing the Solnha, to see what they were made of. And now, with nothing to fall back upon to surprise them with, the Galra were now more equipped to fight them on equal footing. _Damn bastards._

“No, no we were winning,” Iefyr wailed in despair, staring wide-eyed to the ships, his antenna shaking from over-load of emotions that swarm him, not only feeling his own, but those he shares the cockpit. Jo’fir, pallor in chin and cheek, stands as testament to his own fears, the scent of dandelions and vomit ripe on both Valion and Viridall’s noses. “We haven’t lost yet,” the Pawther snapped to his companion gunner, lining up his gun to take down three consecutive djalg before they could shoot upon the ship. 

Three forward battleships move into position before they can be stopped, the plating on their hull pulled back to reveal large shard-like bombs much similar to the first two that crashed into the planet when the Galra announced they’d come to annihilate their enemy. “Take them out!” Valion orders, flying adjacent to the _Godolphin_ as they rush into targeting range, attacking bombs, bridge and engine. However, the shields are still intact and there is nothing to stop the bombs from falling when they’re released, plummeting to the surface of the planet. 

Their pointed shape was enough to embed deep into the earth, the shards standing erect like ancient statues built by a long-extinct race. But these were nothing like sacred temple pillars, but the certificate of death in the form of detonation devices. With their size, easily the size of Green or Red, the power within them would crumble the Home Tree with only one explosion. 

Roamer sets off another pulse, just above the shards, already turning point to the ships that hang in the sky. 

“Ygrainne, get out of there,” Valion yells, but the Thorx doesn’t abandon her post, staring at the readings from the outpost’s scanners that have focused upon the spire mere _jumps_ from her position. “They’re not set to detonate. There is no signal coming from them, to the cruisers or from them. What are they for?”  
“Roamer must’ve wiped out their communication line. Good thinking on her part.”  
“It’s my specialty,” Roamer sings back, her grin easily heard in her voice. 

“Alright, Caldara is safe for now. Everyone, on Roamer. She’s leading and we need to catch up.” Valion turns his attention back to _Wearne,_ creeping closer to the ships as she continues climbing into the atmosphere. “We’re going to need the pulse recharged as soon as possible.”  
_“As we speak Valion. We’ll be set in— No, Yuu, evade, evade!”_

Roamer’s comms was disrupted by the sound of screaming and static, the visual showing Wearne’s bridge drowning in fire as three battlecruisers unleashed their firepower on the Hyaline ship. 

_No. No, no no no nonononononono—!_

Valion stares, horrified, mouth slack, mind numb as a thousand thoughts pour into his mind. None of them make sense. None of them latch with his understanding; Valion simply left to watch as the _Wearne_ tilts in the sky, her body falling to the side, a stabilising engine sputtering in and out of life as another barrage of enemy fire light up her underside.  
Valion can’t think. He can’t feel. His head is underwater, his mind thrumming to the power of the ocean as he drowns on the sight before his eyes. The _Wearne_ can’t be… Roamer can’t be—

“ROAMER!” 

No sooner had her name left Valion’s mouth, every gun in the Solnha army open fired in retaliation to those that targeted their sister. Half the compliment of missiles was launched from _Caldara’s_ surface, blasting a path through the forward defences, taking out half a dozen support ships and two battlecruisers by themselves.  
They gave the enemy no chance to manoeuvre themselves into attack formation to begin an assault. Some shots missed their initial targets. Instead, they carried on, towards the remaining fleet where djalg threw themselves into the firing line to protect cruisers – or they didn’t.  
Either way, the misses still did damage. 

“Roamer, come in! Roamer!” Valion is still yelling, pushing his full force on the jets of his engines to get to her faster. He doesn’t know what to do as his ship pulls close to the _Wearne,_ left to watch the sputtering of her third engine whine and growl, sputter twice more before dying completely. “Roamer come in.” 

“…kay Val-… damage to… mage…”  
It isn’t a complete message, but Valion can hear his sister’s voice and it’s enough for him. “Hang in there, Roamer. We’re not finished yet.” 

“INCOMING!” Ygrainne yells, still manning the communication hall on _Caldara’s_ peak, her scanners having picked up signals of yet more ships entering the watchable space surrounding _Caldara._ Valion’s heart is in his throat, but determination steels him and the ship on Wearne’s right side, taking up position to defend Roamer from anyone that thinks they can destroy her. 

“Knew you’d need us to save the day,” a new voice greets over the comms, laughter in her tone at the followed response of cheer as they recognise Cersaelk. With her comes Irian, Ongarites’ ships and many that aren’t recognised by Valion but they’re on Solnha’s side and that’s all that matters. Without the order, they unleash their own weapons on the enemy from behind. 

It’s a surprise the Galra were not expecting, and the fleet drops a few more numbers before they’re turning on the _Rexx-Marth_ and _Dawnil’s_ vanguard. 

The influx of hope given from the two ships and their _Flardryn_ support was all Valion needed, taking spotlight over the comms.  
“Alright, now let’s blow these fuckers from the sky. They’ll learn never to mess with the Solnha. Everyone, give them hell.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_[This is Ygrainne of the Solnha Alliance, speaking on all open frequencies. Under order, all ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara. We are under heavy fire. We request aid against the Galra._

_I repeat._

_All ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara. We are under heavy fire. We request aid against the Galra.]_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The battle is hell incarnate.

There are too many ships to keep check all at once, not to mention the djalg that dive bomb in controlled formation, tailing ships and _Draos_ squadrons of their own. Even as war raged on, and the number of broken ships fell to _Caldara_ like sinking ships on an ocean tide, the enemy seemed endless, the fire from friend and foe alike never changing in its deadly dance to the death. 

Too many times has Valion watched two-man fighters fall from they sky, careening down to the snow-bitten planet in spirals of smoke and fire. He cannot wonder for those on board, wishing their deaths already before the ships plummet into snow drifts. He can’t wonder if they are a face he has met, be them one the crew of the _Godolphin,_ or perhaps even a friend with who he has raised a glass and fought beside in a raid.  
He can’t wonder if they were Hycis from who he saved from _Genwar,_ only to send them to their deaths here in this seemingly unwinnable war. 

Valion can’t wonder, or he’ll lose his focus. 

Warfare isn’t easy to be a part of, even as Valion joins those that fight for him and their home. He can tell himself that he’s risking his life too when he orders Fellfrir into the atmosphere with the masses, ordering Ryul and the _Godolphin’s_ compliment of ships to hyper jump out of the fight then double back in for a surprise attack against the northern hemisphere. 

It doesn’t matter if he tells himself its for tactics when he orders Roamer’s crew to abandon ship, to send Wearne as close as they can to the bulk of the warships and have her engines override until the thing is nothing but a floating bomb that takes out one warship and the shields of the nearest two. 

It doesn’t matter what Lance tells himself, because it doesn’t change that he can’t keep freezing every time he thinks of the aliens on board, all with their own lives, dreams, families, thoughts, feelings, _fucking hopes for the future that he’s taking away from them—_

“VALION EVADE!”  
Jo’fir tackles the idiot for the controls at the last minute, the jack-knife dive two ticks too late and their ship has been hit. 

Valion can’t afford to freeze, or he’s just going to end up killing himself and killing his team. He’s let down his family before, gotten them killed before, but no more. 

Now, Valion has no choice but to disassociate himself from the reality of the consequences.  
They are no longer his family, no longer Solnha with hopes and dreams and lives of their own. Now, they’re tool, pieces on a chessboard waiting to be moved into position for the best strategic advantage. It’s selfish and cruel, but Valion can make amends afterwards. He can celebrate their victory with his family, accumulate a large standing force the Galra will think twice before crossing them.  
He’ll keep them all safe, he won’t let betrayals stand. He’ll find out who betrayed them this time and he’ll make an example of them. But that is for after the battle. 

If there is to _be_ an ‘after.’ 

Valion was torn all of the battlefield, lending support to his chess pieces where he could, giving cover to the _Godolphin;_ his king, to the _Fellmot,_ his Queen.  
The Trigamon on Caldara’s surface were his immovable pawns, but their quick constant barrage of laser fire and cover of a fully formed energy shield was doing enough damage keeping the enemies’ attention, he didn’t lament to their non-existent manoeuvrability. 

A cluster of djalg flew out of a nearby support ship, Valion on his own to face down the half dozen ships. But they darted along, rapidly changing manner of direction, making it difficult to project their trajectory to either Matriarch’s swarming _Draos_ or the _Godolphin_ that was hiding in the blind spot underneath a cruiser, using it as cover and defence to target everything else beneath it. It was a good strategy, which Ryul could claim praise. Their position was noted for the time being, but it would soon change if the djalg decided they didn’t want the _Godolphin_ there anymore. 

“Irian, Eldar needs support,” Valion ordered, tearing himself, with great difficulty from his lover’s side, hurtling upwards, into the upper atmosphere as Ryul and his squad jumped back into the fight for the second time. Their tactic worked well, but the jump’s cost a lot of fuel. There is only a small time frame for them to refuel on Ongar before returning back to the battle.

Tho’xemae’s voice joined the universal comms, updating the entire fleet on his predicament as he tended the injured. Those that had fallen to the surface, surviving fall and the risk of explosion of their own craft had managed to crawl, or be carried to safety by younger Hycis who hadn’t been allowed to join the fight. Instead, the children had taken it upon themselves to mine tunnels to the fallen spacecrafts and dig out their comrades, taking them back to Tho’ in his med-bay to begin their treatment.

According to Tho’, the only Home Tree shafts that had collapsed were three in the lower settlement quarter and another few that had been crushed when the broken bombs had pierced _Caldara’s_ surface. Those still in the base were not at threat of being trapped as long as the Hycis children kept burrowing and any remaining bombs were destroyed before they could be dropped. 

“Reading no more flight patterns that signify they’re planning to drop anymore,” Ygrainne informed everyone, the strain of knowing their home was at stake pulling her voice into anger. She was working hard, not just over-seeing the battle with little to do but watch, instead her and her team of technological experts working on reading the patterns of the ships flying above them, providing Jo’fir her findings to support Valion’s decisions of where to push his ships. 

Roamer would’ve been a better bet to lead, but her escape shuttle had been hit when she abandoned the _Wearne_ at the last minute. The Hycis children were yet to find her.  
Valion has, so far, managed to resist the urge to ask Tho’ of her, having already come to terms with being unable to tear his mind where it would only serve to kill him and his family. He can’t be family to them right now, he can’t care, he can’t think about the odds that he would see his friends again when this was all over.

He can’t be Lance. 

Not here. 

_Not now._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_[This is Ygrainne of the Solnha Alliance, speaking on all open frequencies. Under order, all ships of the Solnha Alliance are to return to Caldara. We are under attack. We have already lost many ships and are requesting immediate aid in the Medellin System._

_We are taking heavy fire—… shit, shit put that—Or’ get down!_

_I-I repeat. This is Ygrainne of the Solnha Alliance, speaking on all open frequencies. We are under attack. All ships come home. We are under atta— ahhhh, brace, BRACE!—_  
_Everybody get down. Val—ships! They’ve hit the lower hangars; the surface has been—Eldar evade, EVADE! You’re in the line of fire EVADE!]_

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Fara, blast the ship that can’t fluctuate their shields. Eldar target the engines of the battleship on the far side, Ryul act as his support, tale out the djalg that get too close. Iefyr, we’re taking the blind side of the flag ship, blast their bridge with everything we have. Viridall, focus on their outlets, I want the oxygen intakes to catch fire and turn the entire thing into a bomb. Go now! Now, now, now!

Valion kept firing out orders left and right, trying to stay on top of his own game while playing chest master at the same time. It’s hard, harder than he wants to admit, and for some reason, Lance won’t shut up inside his head, second guessing his decisions.  
What if he’s making things worse? What if Ryul misses an enemy and Eldar takes the fall because he should’ve sent the _Flardryn_ instead? What if leaving Mohr’s sights clear leave the Trigamon ground weaponry defenceless, left to be destroyed? 

What if Valion is only delaying the inevitable, and they’re all going to die anyway.

 _“Everyone, close your comms for the count of ten ticks. Quick!”_  
Valion doesn’t even have time to question Ygrainne’s orders before Jo’fir complies. The cockpit falls into silence except Viridall, cursing out every ship he fires out and Iefyr’s constant barrage of narration as he protects the starboard side. It’s his way of trying to keep his mind focused, but it doesn’t help every time his mantra is filled with despair and the fear of their annihilation come well-aimed projectile that would tear through the hole and leave them for fire to consume—  
“Iefyr, focus on killing the Galra, not us,” Jo’fir snapped, filling the silence with his own terse countdown, as per Ygrainne’s orders. “—five, six, seven—”

Valion hates it. He hates being disconnected from the rest of the fleet, seeing Matriarch’s flag ship with biters on her tail and no way to order the nearest Ongar ships to help her out. All of a sudden, Matriarch veers, but the djalg continue flying straight ahead, their downward trajectory taking them over the cliff and towards _Caldara’s_ surface. They don’t even try to pull up until all free crash in a fiery explosion. 

It’s not just Matriarch’s biters that bug out. Those that had been fighting Irian’s support ships fall out the sky, the ones targeting Ryul stopping their fire, their flight pattern a straight line meaning easy takedown.  
A squad of five are taken by a Galran cruiser before they can explode on impact. Streams of smoke lead falling craft to their original position, yet nothing makes sense as to why the djalg are suddenly—

“—nine, ten!” Jo’fir hooks back up the comms, the cockpit filled once more with Ygrainne’s voice, but this time, she is cheering in jubilance. “Yes, yes it worked! I didn’t think it would work as effectively but it has,” she cheers, much to Valion’s confusion, but he’s happy that it is she that has done something to award them a boost up in this ongoing battle. 

“What did you do?” he asks, flying towards a group of djalg that could be sight-seeing for all they do to fire at him on approach. 

“The djalg are piloted by androids, just like the bulk of the Galran Army. But they also need signals from the ship to perform their more intricate tactics. Their coding was too complex to give them fake orders and turn them on the cruisers themselves, so I just jammed the frequencies with static. It drowned out their real communications but I had to do it on an open line, hence the radio silence. I don’t know how long it will last, but it’s the best I’ve got for the time being.”

“Ygrainne, you’re amazing,” Valion grinned, chasing another squad, watching them tremble where the communication signal worked against the static still in their systems. 

Lance was quiet in his mind, giving Valion room to collect his thoughts and return to chess master.  
“Alright everyone, focus on the djalg before the Galra take control again. When they’re gone, we can focus on blasting the battlecruisers out of the sky.” 

The turn of the tide was coming. The Solnha just had to be on the right side when it did. 

“THE BOMBS!”

Valion couldn’t place the screaming in his ear, still riding the hope that came with Ygrainne’s trick, not understanding what the words meant even after he turns his head to the ice fields far below, where the defective Galran bombs were secreting smoke from the cracks in their metal plating. 

Wait. They weren’t duds? 

They were _timed?_

“EVADE!” Valion ordered, despairing at the sight of his _Arenphine’s_ ship too close to the third spire’s peak. He was too close to the bomb’s blast radius. Even if he survived the initial explosion, the _Godolphin_ wouldn’t, and Eldar would be resigned to his fate in the echoing crash.  
Valion’s chest tightened, white noise in his ears. 

“ARENPHINE EVADE!”

“What can we do?” Iefyr yelled from his gunner position, using sights to line up the three hissing shards, dug deep into the earth. It wasn’t just for the sake of the skyward fleet. If those bombs detonated, they would surely collapse the tunnels, trapping those that remained in the roots, and threatening the lives of the children and the injured that still took refugee within Home Tree’s upper branches. 

“Ygrainne, get out of there,” a voice screams. And oh, it’s Valion himself as he turns the ship, not knowing what to do as the metal plating begins to move, the bomb taking—

It’s not a bomb. 

None of them are bombs. 

“What the hell are those things?” Viridall asked.  
It was rhetorical, but Fellfrir answered, _“unknown,”_ all the same. 

Instead of fire and smoke pouring from the shards that pierce _Caldara’s_ surface, Valion watches in horror as hundreds after hundreds of androids pour from the pod’s parting cracks that aren’t even fractures in their shell’s, but doorways and gateways for the hordes to pour from. _“Blow them up!”_ Fellfrir yells, her guns turning to the surface—  
“No! No you can’t! If you bomb the surface, you’ll risk collapsing the tunnels as it is. Our weapons are too powerful to focus on the robots. We’ll just kill everyone still under the surface.”

_Everyone._

The children, the medical team, the Trigamon that man the guns, Delphi and the waterborne that cannot take part in fighting even if they wanted too. They were trapped, just like everyone else until the war was one and the Galra were chased from _Caldara._

Eldar was right.  
They couldn’t do anything. 

The Galra had played them, right into a false sense of victory. The Solnha couldn’t bomb their own planet for risk of killing the innocents not fighting. Now they are forced to fight the horde head on, on the ground.  
It didn’t matter that they had destroyed one battleship already. It would need all their fire power to take on the second and the remaining ships before more dropped out of orbit. Now they are forced to divide their power, to fight on two fronts and defend…

“Valion what are your orders?” 

“Valion?”

_“Valion!”_

They call for him, just beyond his understanding. It doesn’t matter that his body launches into routine, treating war like he had treated training with Anadón; dead eyes and dead mind as his body reacts to movements, he’s performed a thousand time like he’s dancing and nothing else. _Breathe in, arms in, turn face, lift, strike._  
Each move is calculated, precise, _meaningless_ as Valion scrapes against the shell of the nearest spire, doing nothing but damaging his own ship, like nudging at the thing will do anything but activate shielding and prevent the entire thing from being blown up.

“Valion? Valion!” 

Valion turns for another go, Iefyr and Viridall having nothing to do but target their rail guns on the steady streams of Androids that line up and take form. They turn their attention to _Caldara’s_ peak and the position that the Solnha have been defending with their lives. The battlefield is littered with debris and broken craft but the Galra aren’t going to let that stand in their way if they want to invade the Home Tree and raze it to the ground.

“Valion,” they call but he does not hear, he cannot hear, when he forces himself forward, using even his ship to carve into the snow and slay those that he has fought over and over, those that resemble the ghosts that stole his family from him, when he was too weak on _Genwar_ and couldn’t save them. 

Valion won’t let them happen again. He won’t. He’ll save his family, this and the one that he and Eldar will build together as they turn the pages of the book and they start their new life, with love and laughter and a forever he’ll be proud to call his own. 

He won’t lose this battle.

“..lion—Valion, Valion what are your orders?”

It is his forever that calls out, Eldar by his side again, the two of them flying, side by side, ready to take on the world. 

Valion shakes himself from his head, shaking the hold that Lance had on him until the boy retreats into his mind.  
_Until after._

“We can’t fire upon the Galra while they’re on the surface. I don’t want to risk the internal structural integrity. Not while the children still work to take the injured to Tho’ and while the Trigamon work the ground defences. We have to be smart about this.” 

But being smart couldn’t come soon enough, Jo’fir stealing Valion’s focus as he screamed, as loud as their internal alarm system. Viridall aimed his rail gun for the missile, but the thing was coming in towards the bow, too far from either his or Iefyr’s line of fire. 

Valion doesn’t even have time to dodge. 

The cockpit exploded into flames, the oxygen stolen when the glass cracked and the ship became nothing and everything, light, sound, pain, weight as Valion strained against the straps across his chest. Eldar screamed his name, somewhere beside him Viridall called out, Iefyr joining the noise as the ship hurtled for _Caldara’s_ surface. 

He’s not sure if it’s the crash that makes him blackout or the speed of the fall that surrenders him to darkness, only to be pulled back by the pain of his body jarring into a standstill. It jarred against the controls and the shattered glass of the front screen, but the injuries were superficial at best.  
They didn’t really hurt. Or that could be the adrenaline. 

Or that could be a sure-fire sign that Valion was _very_ badly hurt and he should probably care for something like that. 

_“M—… -igna—res…”_ the comms crackle, but Valion can’t make sense of the words while his brain repeatedly throws itself against the front of his skull. Heat pools behind him, cold in front. Things make sense as his eyes drag open and he sees snow on his lap, covering the controls and the front of the ship where they have crashed into a snow drift, nose first. 

Valion can hear his name being called, distant in his ear and beside him. He lifts his head, blinking blearily at the cream, black and red hand shoved in his face. There’s no time to react, but time to recognise, Valion moving with Iefyr as he hauls him from the pilot’s chair. Viridall has Jo’fir thrown over his shoulder, already out the cockpit, moving to take Valion, but the disorientation has passed and he can stand by himself, already thinking, already back in the moment of battle. 

He ignores the pain of his back and head, feeling something familiar stroking at his cheek as suddenly the pain is gone and he can think clearly. _“I’m coming Lance.”_

“Val—ion, incoming ships,” Ygrainne tells him, sounding far away and too close all at once. 

Anger prickles at the Human’s skin, wishing the Galra to fuck off into oblivion and never return. But something in Ygrainne’s voice calls to him. Something that doesn’t sound like fear. 

“Who are they?”  
_“Valion? Val— Can you hear me?”_

Yes, he can, but she can’t hear him. His klick is damaged. Luckily not broken completely, but that means jack-shit when he can’t ask Ygrainne who it is that has appeared on her scanners.  
It doesn’t matter. It can only be more Galra. They’ve come to annihilate the Solnha who have plagued them for too long. 

“Valion? Valion do you read me? There are new signatures approaching _Caldara._ I don’t recognise them.”  
So, they’re not Galran? Does that mean--?

“It’s something ancient. It’s not a ship— Wait a tick— Valion _look!”_  
The sky, alight with the cresting sun shone bright on the white surface of the ship. The familiar sight made Lance’s heart soar, and his stomach drop. His feet stumbled where he stood, his entire body freezing as he stares up at the sky, watching the Castle of Lions descend into battle. 

The Paladins of Voltron had come.


	43. A Want To Stand Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> War has come to the home of the Solnha, but they no longer stand alone on the battlefield.  
> Voltron stands with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? What is _this?_
> 
> Yes, it is what you think it is. Another chapter even though I only uploaded one this morning. But it's Christmas, and you all deserve it!!! 
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS & HAPPY HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!!!  
> Hope you all have a wonderful day, enjoy yourselves.
> 
> Much love  
> ~Fae xxx

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

Lance could feel her.  
He couldn’t see her, couldn’t look up an know where she would be in the sky. 

But Lance could _feel_ her. 

When the bond between them was first severed, Lance hadn’t felt the emptiness within his mind. Anadón had been there, his darkness clouding every thought, every perception and twisting it into something weak and pitiful. When She was there for him, Lance hadn’t taken notice, hadn’t sought out her voice over that of the hissing in his ears, letting Anadón pour into him, stain his body, mind, _soul_ with his poison.  
He filled every nook, every cranny, every empty space until there was only him. 

But it wasn’t for Lance.  
It was so Anadón could feast upon him, feast upon his mind and drive him crazy until there was nothing left but a memory. 

Lance had accepted it. 

Stupidly. Pitifully.  
He thought Anadón’s companionship was punishment, that the words the snake would spit was punishment he deserved. Lance had thought nothing of it and accepted the lies like they were truth. He must’ve known.  
Somehow, somewhen, he must’ve seen the lies for what they truly were. If not, he would’ve never fought back. 

When Anadón was slain, the heaviness faded, sifting away like black sand through his fingers until there was nothing. Washed away by Eldar’s ocean blue, the sunlight of his smile holding Lance tight. The emptiness wasn’t feared, but relief and an invitation all at once. With Anadón gone, taking his poison with him, there was a freedom that allowed Eldar in; a union of two hearts Lance had never thought he would have. He never thought he deserved Eldar’s love, or love of any kind, after all he had done. Abandoning Earth, abandoning Voltron. 

And now, a familiar face stands on the threshold of his mind, waiting for him to turn and look at her. 

She was there when he had left Voltron; beside him but a thousand lightyears away. She had called out to him, desperate for Lance to hear her when Anadón barred her way. No one stops her now, but even when it should be so clear, her song sweet and comforting in his mind, Lance hears nothing. She isn’t calling out for him.

Instead, Valion hears voices he wishes he couldn’t. They’re there, not inside his head. They’re not a fantasy, a daydream that will just vanish when he turns cheek and ignores the trick his mind plays. Because this isn’t a trick. 

The voices of Voltron are _real._

They call into his ear, through the comms that Ygrainne had hailed them with, to synchronise attacks and warn the Lions to protect the mountain and the Solnha that hide within.  
Lance can hear Shiro, hear the commands he gives to his team, to every praise that follows linked explosions and destroyed ships that fall to _Caldara’s_ surface. He can hear Hunk’s worry for the damage the debris will do to the tunnels, to Allura and Keith who target the skeletons that _will_ do damage, breaking them until they are smaller. He hears their teamwork, hears their voices, their _real_ voices because….

_They are here._

They are above him, in the skies, in their Lions. They’re fighting to save his family where he can’t because his ship is destroyed and now, he stands, ready to kill those that trust him because _Lance isn’t strong enough—_

“Valion get your head out of the clouds!” 

Viridall tackles Lance hard, the two of them tumbling into a snow drift as a burst of laser fire rips through where the Human had just been standing. Instead it is the snow that is obliterated, thrown into the air to act as cover and distraction all at once, Viridall grabbing Lance and hauling him along where the boy can’t focus through the mess of tangled thoughts that warp his mind. 

_They are here. They are here and I am here and, I don’t want them here.  
     They’ll drag me back, they’ll take me back with them. I can’t go back to being weak, I can’t—_

     Then fight. Fight hard and win. Show Voltron the strength you possess, the strength you’ve _always_ possessed.  
     Show them that forcing you out was a mistake.  
     Show them that you’re not what they think you are. We are Valion. Not Lance, not a fifth wheel, replaceable, stand-in, weak, _broken, false, puny—_

_I can’t. I’m not strong enough. I left because I had no other choice—_

     It was a _choice_ to leave them. And we left because they wouldn’t allow us to be ourselves.  
     To be strong.  
     To fight, to lead, to be _victorious._

_I can’t._

     Ignore them.  
     Ignore Voltron. Ignore all distractions, but the Galra. We are at war with the Empire.  
      Voltron is nothing but a tool to use to gain our victory.  
     Now fight with us, Lance.  
     Let us fight together to _destroy them._

“Dammit, move!”  
Viridall shoves him again, towards Iefyr who was leading the way, further uphill, laying down cover fire for his team. There was only the three of them; Jo’fir having been knocked unconscious from the crash, still yet to wake. Lance didn’t let himself thinking about the slow, sluggish bleed that oozed from his head, or the way his had lolled loose on Iefyr’s shoulder, how his pale freckled coat reminded him too much of Uilt’xen, dead, cold, _lifeless—_

“Valion, move your _quiznaking_ ass, before I BLAST YOU MYSELF!” 

Viridall’s patience shoves Lance hard, the boy stumbling on his feet, hands curling on rock to steady himself before he could fall. _Don’t think, can’t think, just act, just fight back._ He can’t think, can’t let himself lose his mind for a second.  
He had promised the _Genwar_ would be his last failure.  
He had promised his fallen brethren that they would be the last to fall by his own failure. 

He had _promised._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Well done team, we’ve thinned their numbers a bit. Now, Allura, Hunk, focus on your efforts above the base, support the pirate’s ships there. Keith and I will take the upper atmosphere. Coran, you and the Solnha focus your guns on stragglers and try and pick off any latecomers. Pidge, see if you can hail the pirates. If we can get a communication between us, we can synchronise—”  
“They’ve beat us to it,” Hunk interrupts Shiro, half his concentration given to the Black Paladin as he and Yellow slam into a small support ship, sending it spiralling out of the air, towards the fissure running through the ice plains beneath them. All at once, all five Lion’s cockpits light up with a channel broadcasting on an open frequency. There’s no moment of hesitation as they all link in together, a small feed appearing on their screens, doing nothing to limit their view of the battlefield, each and every one of them throwing themselves into battle with a strange tension that has clouded them since _Genwar._

The familiar sight of Ygrainne fills their screen; already knowing her face from the distress beacon, learning her name from the Solnha they had saved from the Galra’s clutches. She looks calmer than they had seen her before, her eyes focused and a sense of fluidity to her movements as she mans not only the communication line, but somehow also monitoring the battle as it progresses. 

_[Voltron, I thank you for responding to our call,]_ she says before Shiro can speak and introduce them. Such formalities are best for after the battle; something Ygrainne knows as she continues to speak, diving into Galran patterns and the extent of weaponries from her own ships. _[We’ve lost the Wearne already, and the Fellmot is running low on full. Problem is, the Galra are funnelling the chasm and there’s no way to get her down and recharge her, or any of the Draos. It will take too long and we need her fire power.]_  
“It will do no good if she falls out the sky. We’ll clear the chasm, get the Draos a clear path, to charge up first. The castle can stand in for the _Fellmot’s_ fire power, but for now Coran is corralling the Galra before they can try and take an orbit to get on the far side.” 

Hunk lends an ear to the alien and Shiro talking strategy while he focuses on the task of picking off djalg that chase pirate fighter jets. There are many littering the plains, smoking, broken and ready to explode. Yellow growls in anger at the sight of a pirate’s fallen craft, the thing twisted and torn beyond repair. It is familiar, or perhaps once was; it’s maroon hull badly damaged but not enough that Yellow doesn’t recognise the ship that had been a part of the initial bait attack involving the Trigamon.  
It brought back painful memories of Lance; painful, hurting memories that hunk had thought he’d already lain to rest. 

The lapse in concentration cost him damage from a support ship in his blind spot, Yellow rumbling low in his mind, roaring loud when they took the pain and channelled it into an attack that ripped the engines from their housing.  
The craft sunk like a ship in the ocean, it’s decent falling close, but not close enough to an amassing ground army, pouring out of shards that had been dropped to the surface long before Voltron had arrived.  
His eyes catch the sight of a fallen craft, the shapes of survivors fleeing away from it when the craft is consumed by the armed soldiers, moving quick on their trail. 

“Allura, survivors, at the base of the mountain.”  
“I see them.” 

But neither can move when the Galra give chase, Ygrainne stealing their attention again when she calls out on all channels. _[Solnha, Voltron, we have incoming.]_  
“She’s right,” Coran echoed, his scanners sent to the Lions and the system-scan revealing that another fleet of battleship-class cruisers had just dropped from hyper-jump. Ygrainne takes what is given, relaying it with her own information taken from the earlier battle. _[They’ve got more shards onboard. Take them out before they can provide reinforcements to their ground units.]_  
“Is that what that signal is? That’s not good— Wait a tick, they’re charging up!” 

“Ion cannons?” Keith asks, the conversation pulling Hunk’s eyes from his target up towards the atmosphere where the shadows of the battlecruisers stand out against the stars. From them hundreds of djalg pour from their hangars, but that is not all. The forward hangar, at the base of the battlecruiser has begun to open, a strange, flat-like something inside it. It dawns on Hunk that it is as Ygrainne said; another shard-like weapon free from its housing and plummeting to the surface, close to the shore and a good three leagues from the other three spires that… that _the Galra are firing upon._

“Someone stop them, those things are going to explode!” 

Pidge takes point on the attack, literally throwing themselves and Green between the firing line, a swarm of _Flardryn_ behind them, chasing the djalg away while the largest of the Solnha Fleet picks off the gunner ships that have turned their attention to the spires. They don’t care for their army still at the spire’s base, knowing that the blast will hurt the Solnha more. 

If they didn’t know better, Voltron would’ve thought the Galra were desperate to wipe out the pirates.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“HEADS DOWN!”

Iefyr was the first to drop following his own warning, Valion and Viridall following him down as a Lion hurtled towards them. Yellow slammed into the ground, not powerful enough to shake the earth, but enough that Valion was glad he was already crouched, if not he’d have been thrown from his feet. 

Yellow roars loud, his legs and armoured body providing them cover, the beast himself stealing the Galra’s gunfire enough that Valion can issue the other two orders to continue moving up the mountain again. Viridall carries Jo’fir now, the Thorx held limp in his lower arms. Valion tries not to focus his eyes, lingering on the blood flow that, can’t be that bad. There is still colour in his cheeks. He’s going to be alright. 

They keep going, putting distance between themselves and the Galra before they can turn their weapons upon the shards and destroy them, taking out everything in a hundred-mile radius. 

The shard on the beach has begun to dispel more soldiers, but the distance breeds an odd sense of comfort rather than looming threat, like a clock that ticks backwards. Everything is a countdown now, but for victory or death, it is not certain.  
All that is, is that the battle is not over. Not by a longshot. 

_[I’ve got survivors on the surface]_ Hunk yells, his voice in Valion’s ear. _[There are too many Galra nearby to get them on board. Someone lend me a hand.]_ His voice is tight with emotion. He’s trying his hardest for their sake, seeing the Solnha not for the rogue pirates they once were, but people that want to be free, that are willing to fight back for the freedom they deserve.  
Perhaps he even knows that, under the armour, the cloak and the mask, it is Lance. Perhaps Voltron is here, not for the Solnha’s sake, but to apologise to him. Or punish him for running away. 

The nostalgia of the Human and memories he brings echoes faint in Valion’s chest. His lungs feel tight, but the discomfort is easily ignored as the androids return their gunfire, not on the giant Altean war-machine, but the Solnha that crouch at its feet. They charge forward with a war cry, eyes on Iefyr and Viridall, missing the Leader wrapped in star-child armour, who raises his blaster. He takes them out quick, precise, one right after the other. The corpses funnel their path into a smaller distance, and now Valion doesn’t have to take great care in aiming, his laser easily hitting one or more as the high-powered weapon carves through robot after robot.

It’s odd, he thinks, that he is so calm in the face of everything:  
The Galra are invading, and dangerously close to swarming them, only challenged by his team and the Trigamons’ turrets that are close to being overrun themselves. Jo’fir is injured and bleeding heavily, Iefyr is hurt, Viridall is beginning to tire and although Lance fears for them, the fear doesn’t stall his gun or stutter his heart. 

And Voltron is _here._  
The team are _here,_ on _Caldara._

It is odd that he is so calm. It is not that he isn’t afraid either, but the fear is secondary to the determination not to be ruled by it. Lance knows this. And though his heart beats fast in his chest, his mind is not completely in the moment of war. Instead, it is fractured. Fragmented into moments, to save himself from being overwhelmed.  
It keeps him from succumbing to fear. It stops him drowning in terror of the enemy, dread for his family and the trepidation of the future still yet to be cast in stone. 

_Don’t think. Just do._

So Valion does. 

Four shots, five, six. Another half dozen. Galra destroyed at the pull of a trigger.  
Their corpses pile upon the snow, falling one after another at Valion’s will. 

There’s breathing room for his team as they scramble up the mountain, searching for a root or a child’s tunnel into the Hearth.  
They’ll fight on the slopes if they have to, but three against three thousand is suicide no matter the strength of will that has them standing their ground, refusing to fall. It’s better to retreat into the Hearth for now, to get back in contact with the fleet or armour themselves and rally more to the ground before the Home Tree can be overrun. 

“Keep going, keep going,” Valion urged to Iefyr, who supports his own bleeding wounds, a hand held to his chest, shooting blindly, unbalanced as one hand levels out his gun in desperation to keep fighting. “Iefyr, go!” 

Valion draws back, pulling shiftblade from laser-blaster to Bumi’s second projectile weapon. His fingers fall upon the familiar setting for his long-shot blaster, watching as instead, it snaps into the form of a high-powered crossbow. The shift is much quicker than before, the weight altered so this time there is a centre in Valion’s hand when he raises it to his sights, but nothing noticeable enough it’s going to make his arms burn after too long.  
Yet there is no time to admire the craftsmanship, no time for Lance to appreciate the support Bumi and all the Trigamon have shown him. 

There’s barely a moment for Valion to ground himself, _aim, breathe, fire_ as the Galra surge forward, pushing back against Yellow.  
The Lion is a wall for their firepower, but bricks come loose with every attack, and all too soon the defence crumbles when Yellow is targeted from above by a dozen djalg and a gunship that drops away from the main fight.  
It has slipped away from Blue who hasn’t noticed her own crumbling defences, too caught up, twisting and turning in the air to freeze and blast whatever she can. She’s not reaching for him. Her mind is closed, in tune to the Princess. 

_[I’m coming Hunk, hold on!]_ Allura’s voice is calm in his ear, calmer than which makes him comfortable. It’s unlike his own sense of still that joins him in sniping soldier after soldier. It’s unsettling but, he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand why Lance think’s she’s _too_ calm. 

But he’s not Lance right now, he’s Valion and Valion doesn’t care for Voltron that fight the battle in the sky. Instead, his mind is torn to the sounds of Eldar, calling for reinforcements as the _Godolphin_ charges a battlecruiser, its ion cannon locked on Eldar’s position. 

“NO—!”  
_[Keith, the white ship! Go, now!]_

Shiro orders Keith into the line of fire, his own ability to dodge the cannon what saves him, drawing fire and returning his own, alongside Eldar. 

_[Shiro, we need help. The damn thing is going to drop another shard.]_

And Lance can see it, see it’s cracking hull, slow in opening but opening nonetheless. It’s a weakness and weapon as once, and although Eldar and Keith focus their fire power on it’s hull, the shard is too heavily defended to be destroyed in the sky. It falls, plummeting through the atmosphere, knocking aside _Draos_ and djalg alike until the ground stops its decent, fissures spreading out around it like spiderwebs. 

Valion feels the earth shake under his feet, steadying himself as his eyes drank the sight of one crushed turret. Screams echo in his ear from all around, his own voice joining the song of mourning, but it is nothing more than noise to his mind as he takes a knee, sights lining up with the half dozen soldiers that had gotten too close while his attention was diverted. 

Another gunship drops away from the fire fight, it’s concentrated attack on Yellow’s right side forcing him into the air. 

The djalg rise with him, swarming him, pushing him further from the ground and further from Valion and the three that are left in the open. They’re at the mercy of the Galran army and those that begin to pour from the fifth unbroken shard. 

Iefyr pales at the sight of their foe. “What are we to do?” he asks, staring wide eyes at inevitable demise, his hope waning in the face of everything.  
“We do what we’ve always done before,” Valion says, grabbing his hand, pulling him towards cover as the Galra open fire again. “We survive. We fight and we survive and we show these Galra bastards that the Solnha aren’t to be messed with.” 

They are where they need to be, ready to fight the Galra before they can storm the tunnels.  
But they’re not prepared to take on the tide alone. 

And they won’t. 

A noise echoes out from the depths of underground; low and rumbling like a growl, the dull grunts of a giant waking from its slumber.  
As the noise continues to grow, the Galra slow their march. They may be android – unable to think and feel – but they know something is changing on the battlefield. Their systems translate into code that says Halt. Wait. Assess. Attack. 

Valion and his team wait too, crouched in the cover of tumbled boulders, each trying to catch their breath and one another’s eye. They shared the same question, but none had an answer to understand the noise. It is reaching its crescendo, the very ground beneath their feet beginning to vibrate with the sheer volume, and still it continues to climb.  
Snow shifts underfoot, pulling the Galra to their knees, the call given out to change ranks. 

There’s no time. 

Suddenly, the ground explodes with great spires of snow and rock shooting into the sky; rockets of moving earth that reaches, stretching for the sky and the Galra that think they’re safe above the ground. The pillars do not reach them however, breaking at the force of everything above them, around them, beneath them until giant fissures crawl up their undersides, the rock cracking like broken bones until the entire thing shatters. The sky rains rock and snow and jagged stone, much like the shards the Galra had sent, now replied in kind but smaller and deadlier.  
There’s no time to question how the Hycis managed it, but there they are, pouring from the tunnels they had created with explosive power enough to wash away half a battalion in a man-made avalanche. 

_“Ge’kah! Victory to the Solnha!”_

Matriarch leads the charge, bloody and bruised but with a fire burning in her gut, she won’t back out of this fight. She may have been shot from the sky, her ships reduced to debris and scraps, but that won’t stop her from fighting while she still has life in her veins and breath in her lungs. 

Matriarch’s people charge with her, some on two legs, some on four. Other leap forward in huge arching bounds, folding up mid-air into large armoured cannon balls that smash into the front wall of soldiers. They are weak; nothing but tin foil to the rock aliens, Hycis and Draora alike, charging in with hellbent fury on protecting the peace Valion had given them. 

Valion doesn’t stand back and watch.  
He charges in with them. 

_“Ge’kah!”_

Everything is a blur. 

Valion twists and turns in a deadly dance, his hands and fingers cold where his armour has been pierced, be it by blade, fire or rock. Blood rushes from wounds that bear flesh to the snow-ash-rain that falls between the ships far above, caught upon his body between the shifts of blaster, blades, gar and spear. His body is heavy like lead, each step like he carries the world on his shoulders, each breath in like it will be his last, but that will not stop him. 

Valion fights beside his family. They all fight as one, fighting their way to freedom.  
For this day and for all days to come. 

They are not soldiers, or fighters or survivors. They are a force of nature; a single being that washes down the mountainside, devouring metal like it they are fire and the enemy dry, dust-bitten grass that has no use growing upon their land. They turn the soil and bury their foe beneath the earth, rising up in spires of rock and snow, crashing down, their strength rippling out until the Galra pull further back, further and further until they stand between chasm and tide.  
There is no peace here. Only death. 

“Don’t let them regroup,” Valion yells, charging in, gun shifting to dual blades that take limbs from bodies, guns and warped metal picked up by the tide around him and turned on the Galra horde. They won’t win. The Solnha are too strong for them, too full of fire and fury—

“Get down!” 

The warning sounds out from his left. Valion’s attention, caught, pulls eyes from fight to the craft hurtling towards them, shot out of the sky from the firefight above. All around him, the Solnha focus on the army, very few still letting their eyes take to the sky as prayers were sent to family still fighting above. Ygrainne is silent, her warnings of incoming ships silenced by explosions at the peak of the tower. Valion had heard her screams, just before the comms died and the world seemed to shrink around them. 

_No, don’t think, don’t feel, just fight._

“Take cover!” 

It’s all Valion can yell as the _Draos_ ship begins to spin, its trajectory changing as it begins to drop sooner than he hoped, its point of decent not over the army that continues to build as more survivors pull themselves from wreckage and root. They can’t hear Valion’s warning over the sound of the world ripping itself apart; very few hearing their leader’s cry of warning before turning their faces to the sky as the shuttle of fire and smoke fills the air, the screams of the ship breaking apart as it fell, pulling attention from the Galra too.  
They wouldn’t feel the same heart-wrenching pain as a Solnha if it was their own that plummeted to _Caldara’s_ surface, but that isn’t a weakness Valion can lament here, now, on the battlefield with the enemy fast approaching and their own ship about to become a weapon with no way to defend. 

“SCATTER!”

The _Draos_ doesn’t slam into the ground and stop dead. It carves a path through those still fighting, turning up soil and rock and snow. In its wake; corpses and broken bodies. There are too few metal caskets that do not have the power to stand. 

The crashed vessel was smokescreen for both sides, giving none the opportune measures to strike without limiting their own movements and separating any would-be attacker from their allies; a sure-fire death if there wasn’t one before. 

The heat of the breeze thickened from the excess blast, ash and snow falling in the air, turning the once pristine landscape into a mess of white and black and _blood._

Valion’s eyes linger too long. He doesn’t see the blast aimed for him, only feels it when he opens his eyes and stares up, past falling snow and smoke, curling upwards into the sky, lit up with explosions. 

He can see Red above, a jaw blade in her mouth, curving and dancing between djalg, destroying each and every one before they can escape Keith’s wrath.  
Black is beside him, beside the _Godolphin,_ the three of them working together to defend, to _destroy._

Valion’s head rings, world spinning. He’s on the floor and then he’s not, a hand on his upper arm. Blue knuckles grip his arm tightly, a Draora on the other end, hauling Valion off the snow, sheltering him, protecting him. “I’m fine Rayon. It’s only a cut.”  
Because it is. The wound on his face is only skin deep. His mask took most of the damage – gone, broken and shattered – leaving Valion with only theatre makeup splattered across his forehead.  
The other doesn’t understand though, worry tearing himself from battle, shoving a vial of _Eyre_ into Valion’s hand, pulling him down behind the shelter of piled robot shells. “I’m _fine_ Rayon. I don’t need this. I need to get back to—” 

It’s not Rayon. 

It looks like him.  
But it’s not him. 

The Draora knows the name Valion calls him, knows the name of the warrior memorialised in Home Tree’s Hearth. It’s probably this that worried him; the Valion stands on the battlefield yet his mind is beyond the veil, seeing that which not is, leaving him blind to the dangers that bear upon them all.  
He shows care when he pulls the boy to his feet, his rough edges smooth when he speaks with his leader, holding onto his own reverence of him. He needs to help Lance, to protect him, not just for his sake but all of Draora, Hycis, Solnha. They all share the same need to return the debt of life, after Valion has pulled them from the stars, given them a home, given them purpose. Given them _hope._

The Draora pushes Lance to another, words shared brief outside the realm of the Human’s understanding, pain still making his head swim, his vision latching a little off kilter. Blood on his face, blood in his ears is to blame, but he’s not out the fight. He just needs to get back to fighting. 

The _Eyre_ will take a moment to numb his pain and kick start his healing cycle.  
But a moment is long enough for the Draora to turn his back, rolling his shoulders, fists curled, eyes hard-set as he levels the enemy within his sights. 

Lance can see the look in his eye. He’s seen it a thousand times, in battle, during fights, a thousand times in his nightmares as he is haunted by the same moment over and over. 

“Don’t,” he says, Lance upon the surface, emotion filling his voice enough that the Draora turns back to him. He is halted by the one that grips his heart. Out of reach of his pale-blue Brother, all too familiar yet unknown in every way.

 _“Ge’kah,_ Valion. We will take victory this day.” 

The Draora turns, deaf to Valion who calls him back, charging forward with the only thought to fight and defend. Valion smashes the vial in his mouth, drinking liquid and crystal, breaking the grip of those that hold him. He charges in too. 

There were no rules in war.  
It was kill or be killed. Fire or get fired upon, hoping not to fall before the white flag is raised.

There will be no white flag from the Galra; neither from the Solnha who are just as, or maybe even more stubborn than their enemy when it came to laying down arms and losing a second home. 

No. Not this time. 

“Stand fast!”

Explosions crashed like thunder through the sky, as if _Caldara_ herself cried out in anger at this display of hatred. The mountains rumbled and the ground shook under the vociferous march of the Galra horde that rally as more spires falls, more parasites crawling from their depths. It didn’t matter that they were just numbers sent to thin the playing field; a ploy that would see many, nothing but spare parts afterwards. 

For them, they did not care. They were simply mindless drones, following orders of their commanders. Nothing more, nothing less. 

They came for Solnha’s destruction.  
And they were going to take it by force. 

_Victory or death._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter beta-ed by the wonderful, hard-working Greyisles!


	44. A Want For Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war against the Galra rages on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all had a wonderful Christmas!

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

There is something about this fight that is different to all those that have come before.  
It is not that they’re fighting alongside a fleet of pirates, or that the number of Galra that swarm the skies far outweigh any that they have faced off against before. It isn’t that panic fills the cockpit or that their minds are torn between caring for the casualties and feeling anger towards the Empire that continue their siege on _Caldara._

With the experience obtained from many, and the slow, but steady increase in control Allura shares with Blue, she doesn’t understand why she’s struggling to keep up with the battle. It isn’t that she feels any great sort of panic, nor does she feel overwhelmed. But for some reason, she’s not fighting well.  
Something in her mind, no matter how small and minute it is, it’s interfering with her link with Blue. 

The Princess can feel it; when she pulls on the controls, when she urges her Lion to fire upon the djalg, she can feel the delay is order and response. There is interruption. There is always hesitance. Waiting. A pause. 

Allura isn’t just fighting the djalg.  
She’s also wrestling Blue, just to fire upon them. 

“Shit, shit, SHIT!” 

Pidge’s cursing came through the comms, loud and clear, their voice pitching as an explosion catches their underbelly and a steady stream of new and inventive curses fill the comms. They’re much more effective than any cry for aid, and Allura is already searching the battlefield for the Green Lion. She looks to where they had been corralled into a trap; two support ships on either side and two dozen djalg funnelling the escape route right into the aim of a charged-up ion cannon.  
“Hold on Pidge, I’m on my way!” Allura yelled, pulling Blue out mid-climb, halting the support charge with the _Fellmot_ that targeted the last ship blocking them from the gorge in the ice plateau. 

“No Allura, you stay with the _Fellmot,”_ Shiro yells, already caught up protecting the white needle-ship besides Keith as they charge battleships in the upper atmosphere before they can drop more solider-shards. “but Pidge—”  
“I’ve got Pidge, you stay with the others. Now go Allura, the _Flardryn_ are about to be overrun. The _Fellmot_ is running out of time!” 

Allura agrees with Shiro’s orders, already tugging on Blue to return them to their earlier trajectory. 

But Blue won’t listen. 

Instead of heading towards the _Fellmot,_ who is beginning her decent into the chasm where the hangars are concealed from the skies, Blue has turned to the base of the mountain where the Solnha stand against the Galra on _Caldara’s_ surface. She’s faster than before, like some unnameable force drives her, pulling her towards the ground battle. 

_No, no Blue we have—to—fight—_  
Allura tugs again, putting her entire weight into the effort of pulling Blue off course. It shouldn’t be this hard. _It shouldn’t be like this—_  
Allura manages to pull Blue up enough that her trajectory is off and the Lion herself is forced to evade the planet’s surface, lest she crush those she wants to save under paw. 

A low growl echoes deep from her heart, but there is no malice, only whining frustration and a wantful song that has Allura listening. For the first time, she understands, it’s not that Blue is giving up the fight. She has another drive in her. 

“What is it?” 

But there’s no time. The enemy sees the Blue Lion’s split attention, pilot and Lion separate with their strategy. They try to take hold of the weakness for themselves.  
It would’ve worked, had it not been for a Solnha Ship using itself to shield Allura from an ion cannon. 

“Allura—!”  
“We’re good, we’re fine, but—”  
_“No need to worry about us. But one more hit and our shields will be blasted to smithereens,”_ the ships replies through the comms, not sticking around as an invitation for the remaining Galra to shoot them out of the sky. Blue doesn’t either, already turning her nose back to the mountain slopes, but with Allura in the pilot seat, and determined after their near-death experience, she’s in control and Blue hasn’t the strength to disobey to the Princess. 

Once again, they shoot for the _Fellmot._

“I’m coming up your left side,” Allura calls, over-compensating with the shift-module when Blue makes an attempt to turn again. _“About quiznaking time,”_ the Alien Sault replies, anger overflowing in her tone to hide the fear she feels underneath. Allura doesn’t bother assuring her, knowing the act is for her crew and the rest of the Solnha that can hear them through their voice-link.  
So, she knows to play along, not bothering with useless words, instead pointing points out targets that aren’t within her reach, working to clear the skies in the _Fellmot’s_ immediate vicinity. 

One djalg, two djalg, — _stop it Blue, fight with me—_ three djalg and another. 

The very few remaining _Flardryn_ join her in an assault against a Galran formation flying in on the right wing while the _Fellmot_ calls out for anyone else to help with the incoming attack from above. Her own guns are locked in a death battle with the circling gunner twin-ships that have the upper hand with their manoeuvrability. 

Red and Black are closer, the _Godolphin_ closer still, but the support fighters are still in the upper, _upper_ atmosphere alongside Coran and the saved Solnha that are using the Castle’s guns to shoot as many as they can.  
There are no more that appear from hyper-jump, but if the Galra have already sent out signals that Voltron is battling on _Caldara_ beside the Solnha, it won’t be long until more are on their way. Hopefully Ygrainne’s jamming signal would keep them from calling for aid until they figured out how to get past it. 

“Coran, we could really use you closer to the surface,” Allura calls, acting as the Captain of the _Fellmot_ had and not letting her worry bleed into her words. It’s not her call really, and maybe its worrying for the Solnha if they hear a paladin calling for help, but what choice does Allura have? She’s been told to protect the _Fellmot,_ but with the Galra turning their sights on the largest fleet in the ship, it is natural that she’s not going to be able to bottle their attack all by herself. 

Blue feels the Princess’s concerns, her own worry spiking and once again, the paladin has lost control of her lion.

“Are you okay Princess? Do you need me—?”  
“Coran, Allura is right. There’s not point funnelling the invasion when they’re already through our defences. Drop down beneath the clouds, see if you can’t draw their fire some as well and we can get the _Fellmot_ underground before she falls from the sky.” Shiro takes control once more, speaking rapidly in context to everyone’s interjections as he changes the battle plan, calling out for Ygrainne for her own say in the Solnha’s movements while Allura fights with Blue. 

“Allura? Allura, where are you going?” 

They’re halfway between the Fellmot and the surface, caught between fighting one another and snapping the Galra’s wings when they fly too close. 

“Allura?”

Pidge has seen Allura abandon her post, having been called in to provide backup after freeing themselves of chasers on their tail, only to find they’ve been left with double more than previous because Allura and Blue are once again dive-bombing the ground army, chasing ships that fire upon the surface, snapping paw, slicing with claws, catching falling skeleton ships before they themselves can be tools of destruction against those that fight on the ground. 

“Allura!”

“They need help!” Allura yells, lying through her teeth as she struggles for a bond that is quickly fraying, with every passing second. 

She can’t tell the team Blue is fighting her.  
Not now. Not after so much. 

Not after losing Lance because of her own wilfulness to take his place. Not after all the regrets of losing him, the wants and wishes for him to return home. Not after learning of his death and the truth that Allura was now the Blue Paladin until her death took her from the chair also…

“Allura—!”  
“They need _help!”_

_“YGRAINNE!”_

They don’t know the voice, but the pain is all too familiar. The heart-breaking, earth-shattering terror as all eyes turn from the battle to _Caldara’s_ peak, where the Galra had pushed through the ground defences and fired, with all their might upon the communication tower. 

They didn’t even hear her scream before the explosions shook the _Caldara_ to her core.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

The horde charged forward, fuelled by the orders of their superiors. They didn’t have the chains of fear or regret to hold them back.  
They came for victory and they were going to take it.

They began to run. 

One after another, their pace quickened until they were charging, shouting together in a thundering battle cry as they flooded the lower ice fields, their guns aimed already, laser fire sent from both sides in concentrated bursts. The ones that came from the beach swarmed the back of the Galra already fighting, doubling, tripling their numbers. It was as if, for every one that fell, three sprang up in its place. 

For the Solnha, it wasn’t the same. 

Those that joined the battle did so involuntarily, if they managed to survive their ship crashing or if they had managed to escape Tho’s clutches as he did his best, patching up whoever was carried into the tunnels by the children. Many had stopped, returning to the battlefield to pick up arms against the Empire and fight beside brothers, sisters, family and friends until every last Galran scum was dead and forgotten, buried a thousand feet under _Caldara’s_ snow. 

Screams echoed up from both sides, but Valion could pay no mind to their meaning when both front lines clashed, and lasers became a luxury when fists and debris were easier weapons at hand. With everyone fighting on top of one another, it was easier for hand to hand; something the Solnha were more adept, as they drove the Galra into the ground.

The natural defences of _Caldara_ provided rocks that were not so easy to pass though, halting many android for easy annihilation. But the sheer number was a driving force too strong to defeat with one simple advantage as the rock pile and growing obstacle of accumulating soldiers. 

Something vaults him; a Daratrine fallen from a _Flardryn_ jet, charging the line of soldiers with no more armour than naturally give, his weapon nothing more than a miner’s drill he has taken from the tunnels between Tho’xemae’s ward and the icefields. He has no commands to follow, no more than that of his own jurisdiction, his only aim to protect family, friends and a home that stands as the battlefield. 

Valion stares after him, his throat tight when the gun barrels lift and there is no safety between warrior and weapon; the flash of a dozen lasers and another dead body to add to those that have already lain down their lives. 

Valion couldn’t stand and watch. He pulled his shiftblade back into the light sword.  
It was longer than Bumi’s previous creation, the curve of the handle easier to hold and a rotation on its grip that didn’t affect Valion’s hold should his sword be pinned between another. Another difference was the handle’s pommel, easily taken into Valion’s other hand and shifting into a long, crystal shield that weighed no more than the pommel itself.  
It would serve him better than dual blades he had little practice with. 

“CHARGE!”

The mass closed in, guns forgotten for warped, sharp metal that sliced flesh and bone. The Solnha replied in kind, dismembering the androids in fury, pushing them back, blinded by one foe to be slain by another—

An explosion blasted within the masses, sending cascades of snow and rock upon the surrounding fighters. It wasn’t another attack from the Hycis below ground, but the bombs from the fight in the sky.  
The ground shakes underneath the strain of the attack, and with no more warning than a crack like thunder, the ground began to give way; a sinkhole pulling in Solnha and Galra without prejudice, devouring them whole.  
Valion couldn’t abandon his fight to dig at the earth, to save those that screamed as they were dragged under. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice thought it fruitless, while another argued that the Hycis were at home underground as much as fish underwater. They wouldn’t fall just because the earth had. 

“Push them in!” came a yell from the opposing ranks. The Galra obviously didn’t know the Hycis like Valion, but still, his heart was in his throat as one after another was thrown into the pit, pushed back by blade, sword and threat of death.  
A roar echoed from beside him, Valion twisting as his mind brought forth memories of monsters in metal suits. Instead, it is another Solnha, older, his skin weathered and worn with scars, old and new. He’s beside Valion and then he isn’t; charging in, his armour protecting him from gunfire, using his body as a weapon as he slams against soldier after soldier. 

They’re shoved to the pit, falling into crumbling rock, to the sinkhole that will claim lives and broken bones. The earth won’t kill them, maybe injure, but it won’t kill and they’ll use that to their own advantage. It wasn’t planned, wasn’t really thought out with great provocation. But it works and it is repeated, as more Solnha are thrown to the pits, turning the tide and digging chasms beneath the Galra’s feet, inviting them to be swallowed up by _Caldara;_ nothing more than a memory when the earth folds in on top of them. 

The thundering clash of blade upon armour echoed across the ice fields, the lines of the Solnha breached as the Galra tried to surround them. But the Solnha wouldn’t allow it. They’d fight, to survive, to allow their families to survive, to protect their home. They fought like mindless beasts, their swords like claws, talons tearing through metal and wire, fangs ripping into armour, desperate to defend, to _kill_ whoever crossed their path. Fear and adrenaline fuelled their actions, demanding more. 

Blood painted the debris of broken ships that had fallen from the sky. Corpses and broken android shells lined the fighting rings, some pulled under the earth, others nothing but an obstacle to scramble over as they targeted another enemy. 

Broken sword shards, shattered rocks, and smashed guns were scattered like silver jewels in the silk liquid flowing in veins between the frozen cracks littering the glacier. Cries of agony echoed into the sky drowned out by the roar of war, as if some great beast had descended upon the mountain to destroy it and uproot its very existence. 

Mountains of stone cascaded upon the armies as ships collided with _Caldara’s_ mountain; djalg themselves used as great sawing weapons that cut into the battlefield leaving death, anger and rage in their wake. 

Valion stood in the centre of it all, shouting orders over the noise of fighting that raged around him. He called out for the children to retreat, to grab the injured and retreat into the Home Tree’s roots. But they were needed in the battle, despite their age and their innocence quickly taken from them with every splatter of blood that painted their cheeks, every blade that rose and fell, and stole their childhood from them. 

Valion charged the front lines himself, Draora, Trigamon, Hycis, Ongarites, Pawther, Daratrine, Thorx, Solnha by his side, beside their leader to charge with him, protect him and protect their families. They raised their swords against their foes, alongside all the Solnha upon _Caldara_ who fought just as valiantly. 

Weapons rose and bodies fell. 

The battle was never even, but the divide in strength became harder to see with every explosion, every fallen ship, every destroyed shard, whose electro-magnetic detonation incapacitated the nearest soldiers for enough breathing room that the Solnha could push back, _push back hard._

There was still a chance.  
They could still win this war.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“YGRAINNE!”

The peak smoked, the communication tower destroyed and the jamming signal lost. 

“Shiro—”  
“I know Coran, but we can’t do anything now. Stay your course. Keith and I will stop any ships above.” 

His voice is tight, he knows. He can’t keep track of the sheer number about them, trusting in his team to catch those that slip into his blind spot. Some part of him yearns for unity, for the strength Voltron possesses in once creation, one giant weapon that could cut the ships from the sky with a precision that the scrambling of the Solnha and the Lions can’t achieve. 

But is Voltron combined the best option for this battle?  
Sure, strength was needed and together they could achieve that, but right now the numbers were high and the fight stretch sparse across the skies of _Caldara._ Voltron couldn’t be in five places at once, like the lions are right now. 

And what if they can’t form Voltron?  
What if, in this pinnacle moment, Voltron won’t come to them because of all the emotion they feel? All the pain of still mourning Lance, still caught in the turmoil of self-blame, self-hate and the fear to protect those that protected Lance where the team couldn’t—

“Shiro, if they get a signal out, we’re going to be swarmed with so many more ships. We’re struggling as it is!”  
Pidge had the freedom to fret, having lost their link with the Solnha. There was no need to watch their words when the pirates wouldn’t hear their worries at the truth of Voltron not being as invincible as the rumours about them would lead so many to believe. 

“Think you can do something about it?”  
“As long as someone picks up the slack on my part. Green and I can’t fight and construct a jamming signal at the same time. And now we’ve lost communication with the Solnha, we’re not going to be able to synchronise our attacks and get one of them to cover me.” 

Shiro cursed under his breath, pulling Black out the way of cannon fire headed their way. Instead it hits the support ship behind him. Another Galra ship down. A thousand more to go. 

“Pidge, you think you can get us back in communication with the Solnha?”  
It’s their only option if they want to fight effectively. Cull the numbers down before trying for Voltron, obliterate the Galra and win the battle this day. Easy, simple in his mind, but not as simple beyond.  
Still lingers the fear of being unable to combine. They had yet to try, too fearful in the times of searching for Lance. And afterwards, when the truth of his death was learnt, between then and the battle they stand in the midst of, no one had the thought to try. With Allura’s efforts with fighting Blue, and the steady bond that had grown between them, to anyone it would be clear that Voltron was just another step on the slope to Victory. 

But Voltron wasn’t just Allura and Blue. It was all ten of them, all the Paladins and all the Lions, united as one to fight whatever foe stood before them.  
Shiro hadn’t pushed for forming Voltron while they were searching for Lance, knowing that he wasn’t the only one hoping for it to be ineffective, as sure-fire proof that Lance was destined to be the Blue Paladin and they just had to find him. 

But now, the truth of the Princess’s position was solidified with the reality of Lance’s passing. And if Voltron failed, they only had themselves to blame.  
They weren’t ready. 

_They weren’t ready—_

Black growls a warning to his distracted Paladin, pulling back as Red rushes past, taking the fire from the lower ships, cutting them down simultaneously, before arching up, giving chase to another that thinks it can catch the Paladins off guard. 

“Pidge, see if you can get up here. Keith and I will cover you. Figure out which is more crucial; a link with the Solnha or jamming the Galra.”  
“But both are—”  
“If you can do both at the same time, great. If you can do more, then that’s even better. Just get up here, or drop into the chasm on _Caldara’s_ surface. If the _Fellmot_ is trying to drop beneath the ice fields, there is certainly room for you to get under there.” 

Pidge replies a mumbled curse, but there is the beginning of a plan forming. Too busy fending off more djalg, Shiro leaves the choice up to the youngest Paladin, following Red into a divebomb as the two nearest battlecruisers collide, sending off a chain reaction of fire and explosions that would’ve caught them off guard if it wasn’t for warning shots fired from the _Godolphin._

The means of communicating was primitive at best, but a warning shot to black and then a round to the forward squadron aiming for the _Fellmot_ was an easy enough message for Shiro to decrypt.  
“Coran, take over from Pidge. Give Allura support defending the Solnha’s ships. Keith and I will keep track above. Hunk, where you at buddy?” 

“Picking off strays with the remaining Draos,” Hunk replies, voice taut, filled to the brim with anger, but it’s not to his team he feels such hatred. It’s to the Galra, after watching them decimate his allies, watching too many ships fall from the sky bearing the arms of the last surviving Draora. Having become close to Rayon and Kenmare, its hard not to feel hurt when another ship falls from the sky. 

“Good, keep it up. We just have to hold on a little longer.”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Anger ruled every action.

Every lift of his sword, every pull of the trigger, it was anger that fuelled Lance into movement. 

And all at once, it wasn’t. 

Lance felt completely detached from the emotion, and all emotions that curled inside him, twisting inside his chest, hardening until they were as heavy as lead. If anger was the heat of the dormant volcano, deep beneath _Caldara,_ then Lance was the ice that blanketed her skin.  
He didn’t think as he slammed his body into a soldier, watching as it tumbled back into another, and another. He didn’t feel as the blade punctured his armour, the cut barely deeper than any he’s had before. He didn’t feel the pain when the blade was pulled out by his own hand, the handles twisted in deft fingers and plunged deep into the ocular lens of the one that had stabbed him. 

Valion didn’t think. He didn’t feel.  
He just fought.  
With tooth and nail and claw and fangs, he took himself to the heart of the battle and dealt vengeance in swift blows, precise swings of blade, light sword and electrified gar that all the Solnha around him had to watch themselves for his unprejudiced attacks. 

Valion was the spearpoint of the counterattack, pushing into the ranks, spreading out within their ranks like poison infecting the blood stream. Valion would be the poison that killed the serpent. He’d be the fire that burned the earth if it would take the beast with him. He’d be the tide that drowned those that stormed his home if it would wipe away their desolation, taking them beneath wave and tide until they were nothing but memory and the Solnha were free. 

Suddenly, a call sounds within the fighting. 

Valion doesn’t know if it is Galran or Solnha, but he knows it is a warning. Valion searches, defended by those that fight with him, allowing him to pull foes from defeating anything and everything that stand in his way. 

But Valion can’t see—

_“I’m coming Valion.”_

The noise started low; a sound barely heard above the consciousness.  
It comes from the sky, from the earth, from Valion’s very heart. And still it continues to grow, pulling not only Valion from the fight, but many Solnha, and Galra too. They can hear the sound, whatever it is, calling them like it calls Valion. 

It’s enchanting, whatever it is. Like a dulcet song the earth only knows, and in the midst of this battle, Lance can hear it too… 

_“I’m coming.”_

A cry pierces the tenor, dissonant but dulcet all the same. It breaks whatever spell took hold of Valion, the human turning his head in time to dee the snow kicked into the air, the flurry of white charging from the _Caldara’s_ peak. And there, he sees here, astride the first beast the leads the stampede upon the battlefield. 

A hand raised in childish greeting and Lance replies in kind, a smile upon his lips as he hears Zaos much stronger now, in his mind and all around him, her name upon the lips of the Solnha. The star-child had come to save them, bringing with her the children of the mountain. 

There was new hope. 

The song was a living being around them now; warmth that fought the cold of the Winter’s air. 

Lance could fool himself into thinking that the noise was nothing but his imagination, perhaps a memory pulled from his own mind and nothing more. But it wasn’t. He knew that, even if it was hard to believe, watching the herd rush towards them. 

The song was theirs; the children of the mountain, poured from their mouths in bountiful melody.  
The hooves beat the time of the rhythmic song, the base of their throats swollen to fill lungs with air, in and out, in and out as the noise continued to build. Younger charged alongside Zaos who rode the Alpha, almost a smile on all their lips, as if these things had mouths that could smile, and not cold pale faceless masks just as fearful as the Galra Army that stood on the ice fields before them. 

They continued to charge forward, only the Solnha’s actions clearing a path as they dove out of the way from the thundering hooves of the wraiths, determined not to be caught in the stampede. They didn’t break through the Galra’s ranks though. They stopped just before, allowing the Galra to flee, standing between Solnha and enemy, coming to a halt with threatening snorts and stamping feet. 

_“Go,”_ came Zaos’ warning, something in her tone breaking the spell of the wraith’s song upon all who heard her echoing shout. Valion was the first to throw himself to the ground, not just out the way of the beasts, but for the protection against their calling as still it rose, almost deafeningly so. Few close to him saw Valion’s action and took heed, their hands clamped firmly over their ears. 

At first there was no movement from the remaining Solnha, but when the herd’s song bled into their minds, their thoughts disjointed and fraying, they realised the meaning of Zaos’ warning, diving to the snow piles, burying faces into the cold. 

Valion lifted his face away from the chill of snow, watching the Alpha slow, tearing from the herd as it raced to a spire of rock protruding from the ground. His heard continued to charge down the Solnha, but Valion paid them no mind. He only had eyes for Zaos and the beast she rode, that raised itself on its hind legs. Then, it slammed its hooves back to the ice with a sickening thud.  
They were all howling then; a cacophony of screeching screams that vibrated deep in Valion’s core. He forced his head down, hands pressing harder on his ears, throat offering a hum to fill his mind instead, as the screaming grew louder.  
It did little to fight the Wraith’s Scream. 

The screams climbed to a crescendo that could have shattered glass.  
It shattered the ice of the cliffs, already fragile from the Galran Warships crashing from the upper atmosphere, and even as the armies fled their fallen crafts, the ocean claimed all that fell into the sea; spaceship and soldiers alike. 

Valion couldn’t rejoice though. Not yet, when the shrill deafened him as it could only grow. Louder and louder until it pierced his body, everything aching, down to his bones that forced Valion to curl in on himself as if that would defend him from the intrusive noise.  
The Wraiths stood defiant, their cries of anger only a testimony to the outrage they felt at the invasion of their home, of the pain they were to bring upon those they shared their home.  
They were the Cerberus of _Caldara._  
Her gift to them; the Guardians of Solnha. 

And when the screams died and the Wraiths stood tall on the mountainside, Valion heard the call to arms.  
Zaos beside him, they took to the army astride the giant white beasts. And Valion, no longer afraid of loss, no longer fearful of an untold future, once more took up the mantle of Valion and rode ahead, his beast lighter, quicker than the rest. 

_“Ge’kah!_ To victory!”

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

They’re winning.

He should be happy. He should be grateful. 

_They’re winning._

So why isn’t Keith happy? Why isn’t he grateful.  
He has no idea, and neither does Red, who purrs soft in his ear, trying to calm him, trying to help keep his anger in check as he pushes her, harder than he ever has before, to defend the Solnha.  
But even as he chases of djalg that target the remaining shards imbedded in _Caldara,_ he can’t help but have mixed feelings towards his own actions. He wants to save them, because they are innocents targeted by the Galra.  
But at the same time, they are the pirates that attacked Lance in the first place. They’re the ones that poisoned his mind and turned him from Voltron, and kept him from them all this time. Lance may have made the decision to stay with them, and it may not have been entirely the Solnha’s fault, but a part of it was and _that_ is what Keith chose to focus on. 

Not his fight with Lance.  
Not his failure at finding the boy and bringing him home.  
Not the truth that Lance was dead and all he wished to say could never be…

Whatever it is, unnameable, unplaceable, something changes.  
Be it the fires that burn _Caldara’s_ peak, the fall of one ship among many, or the hum of something deep and _alive_ calling to Keith beyond what he knows, _something changes._

The Solnha push back with a fury unmatched. Their fleet is infantile compared to the Galra’s, even more so with the numbers they have lost. But that won’t stop them.  
They may have been on the brink of breaking, many ships gutted, many lay dead upon the snow or buried beneath as bombs shake the mountains and sent tides of snow to wash away the destruction. They may have been drained and close to exhausting the last of their weapons, but it wouldn’t stop them. Not when they’re so close.

The Solnha moved as one, united with one another again, the full force of their retaliation unleashed in a single moment of fury. Something had changed within all of them, igniting hope, igniting a fire that took to the skies and painted it red with blood and fire and hate.  
Desperation saw risks taken where before, they hadn’t been; the _Draos_ and _Flardryn_ combining attack patterns, flying in close-knit groups where one single explosion could’ve taken them all out. But they were protected by the large ships, the _Godolphin,_ the _Rexx-Marth, Dawnil_ and _Favara_ laying down cover fire, moving together to pull the ships to them rather than chase them across the battlefield. 

New weapons were spat across the distance in an instant, slamming into the enemy’s hulls, hooking deep into the metal, chewing it up and spitting out fury in the forms of fire that filled the halls of the ships, burning them from the inside out. 

The tide turned. 

They were winning. 

Coran descended into battle himself, leaving the last of the fleeing ships to Allura and Blue, who chased them down with the same vengeful energy as the Solnha, belching lasers and plasma, digging claws into their shells, pulling back the plating as the pressure of _Caldara’s_ atmosphere crushed the soldier’s bodies, crushed the Galra lieutenants until they choked on collapsing lungs, choked on blood and thin air before expelled into space like the unwanted vermin they were. 

They were winning. 

They’re winning, but Keith doesn’t think to care for the outcome. He just knows anger burns under his fingers and the Galra will serve as a good punching bag. So, he destroys them. Alongside the Solnha, alongside the team that stand beside him, he fights them; without restraint, without care, he flies into their ranks and blows them up from the inside. He uses Red as a battering ram, shoving ship into ship, snapping ion cannons with her brute force. Yellow joins him at one point, the two of them tearing into a battlecruiser. Then it’s a war ship, a support gunner, half a dozen djalg. 

They’re winning.

Pidge curbed the Galra’s communication lines, altering the outgoing transmissions so that the messages they sent are corrupt. Any Galra that _do_ receive the message get one with Pidge’s touch imbedded deep into the code, changing the coordinates so that any forces that jump into the system as backup, end up jumping into the heart of _Caldara’s_ star instead. 

They managed to get back in link with the Solnha, leaving Shiro to communicate once again, hearing the pain the Solnha feel from losing brother and sisters, losing young ones inside the mountain and below on the battlefield.  
Shiro lets them take control, giving their strength to the two that talk battle. That _know_ battle. Eldar and Gereen are given the reigns of the lions, asking them to support their own ships as the movement begins to disband, the ships turning from where they had gathered to surround the remaining ships and destroy them.  
The _Fellmot_ has returned to her hangar, so close to the end of the battle that they don’t miss her loss, protected by the Trigamon in the last ground turret picking off strays as Draos filter in an out. 

They’re winning.

Blue supports the _Godolphin,_ supports the Castle as the three of them pick off strays in the atmosphere, until only one battleship remains. They don’t even bother pretending to surrender, instead slamming on their engines and aiming, head first for the ground army still pushing back the ground forces. 

The ship barely makes it half a league before the entirety of the Solnha ships open fire, blasting it from the sky. 

They’re winning.

There is no delay from the pirates, the Lions, the Castle; lowering themselves to _Caldara’s_ surface, surrounding the Galran army. The Solnha that stand against them push them back towards the tide and the chasm that will be nothing but a dumping ground when the battle ends. 

A voice, loud and demanding, calls for surrender.  
But it isn’t the Galran way. They don’t yield, and surrender themselves to utter destruction when the ships open fire, blasting them to memory. 

They’ve won.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Smoke rises in small, dwindling plumes, like age-old columns of a forgotten city crumbling as time breathes upon them, calling them back to the dust.  
Snow and ash fall from the sky, the battle long since-fought, now leaving all a chance to breathe before reality clouds them and they are forced to face the truth of their losses.

Not yet. 

The first cry rings clear in the silence. It isn’t sad, or lament in nature; filled with a sorrow that has Valion turn his cheek and will tears to dry before they stain his skin. Instead, it is joyous. Disbelieving perhaps, but joyous nonetheless. Another calls back, the echoing mingling like the arm embrace of a mother to a child she thought lost.  
Another and then another, until the Solnha’s voices ring out in cheer, rejoicing in their lives, spared from the gullet of the beast that had come too close to taking them from this world, too soon. 

Bruised, bleeding, hurting family call out, the song of triumphant filling the valley, drowning out the fires that still burn, drowning out the truth the ebbs around their island of hope. They’ll take the dive when they’re ready, but not yet. Valion won’t force it upon them yet. He joins the cheers, his own triumphant noise reaching up to the skies, tears upon his face as he feels the overwhelming relief of all those around him.  
He can see the _Godolphin,_ he knows Eldar is alive and well. 

Thinking of his Arenphine ignites something in Lance’s chest. He burns to see him, his body moving without thought, moving among those that reach out to one another, pulled into one another’s arms. Song, laughter, cheer, jubilance. Happiness. Relief. Warmth. 

Lance’s steps quicken, the _Godolphin_ before him. He can see the lowering of the hatch bay doors, the crew of his family pouring out and those that fought alongside him on the ground rushing to meet them. Eldar stands among them, a hand to his gut where an explosion threw him against the console, but other than that he is alive and well.  
Lance bears the worst of the Galra’s fury, but the wounds are shallow, the cuts already healing. The pain is numb and nothing compared to the joy at seeing Eldar. Worried eyes trace dried blood, old scars and new, casting the pair to their time upon _Tuatha,_ lazing upon river stones, soaking up the sun and one another’s company. It reminded Lance of Eldar’s confessions, his own love blossoming before the promises were ever voiced. Already shared, already given and taken in equal measure.  
Their world was so much simpler then. Before _Genwar,_ before facing the Empire. Before challenging Gereen and inciting mutiny from the Arroyen that had turned on them like the tide turns as the moons call. 

But now is not for regrets.  
Now is for love and hope, and loving one another. 

Laughter surrounds them as Lance rushes forward, breaking free from the crowd, or is it that they move from his path, watchful eyes upon Valion, their leader, the saviour of the Solnha that rushes to greet the one he loves. 

There, in Eldar’s arms, he is safe.  
There, he is loved, cherished.  
There he belongs. 

There, he is _whole._

“We won,” Lance whispers.  
He doesn’t know why he’s crying, didn’t realise it was him who cries until he felt the wet on his cheek, the caress of his lover’s thumb catching tears before they fall. He doesn’t know what feeling fuels the tears that pour from his cheeks, why they fall or if they’ll ever stop. But he doesn’t care, when Eldar just holds him tighter.  
Silver shines in his eyes too, the two of them staring, caught within their own world of one another; star-light-shine love, rose-apple, white-blossom-spring warmth that carries them in the moment, sharing their hearts, whole and one. 

Eldar kisses Lance like he could’ve lost him. And he could’ve.  
And that is frightening, yet it makes their love so much more precious, this moment so much more than just the two of them finding one another once the battle is passed and the enemy slain. 

The lingering touch doesn’t remain as a touch as Lance pushes back, lips catching Eldar’s in another soft, gentle, honey-light, sun-soaked, warm-electric-life-filled love that has them enthralled, entranced, enchanted.  
Beneath is, stormy-grey of distant fear lingered, but with all they had been through, neither cared for the emotions nor any deeper meaning, letting themselves be caught up in the euphoria for as long as the Solnha rejoiced, rejoicing with them. Lance, in Eldar’s arm, refusing to break the touch, to break apart lest Lance wake and realise this all a dream and the battle lost—

But no.  
This was not a battle lost, but a battle won; one of many yet to pass when the Solnha stand, time and time again against the wrath of the Galra, until the Empire are nothing but a memory, the blight nothing but a splatter of ink on the timeline of the universe, set to continue long after the Empire’s demise. 

Zaos finds him, her skin sparkling awash in galaxy and nebulae, the flowing veil of her hair wrapped around her as she wraps around Lance in an embrace, their minds one and the same as they share relief that this battle is different to their last, that they are both alive and well, ready to fight again. 

She takes his hand, warmth pulsing in their palms. A heartbeat. Life.  
The possibility of a future, because they have survived this day.  
They have won this day. 

There is not complete happiness within him.  
Eldar scents the stormy-grey-salt-soaked-taut-rope of regret, all the decisions Lance should’ve made sooner, should’ve made different. In his heart, bitter-cold-biting-ice of painful anger towards the Galra he wished he could slay, all by his own hand and the many millions that wait beyond the stars, preparing for vengeance they think is theirs to claim.  
Fire-magma-heat burns like penance under his own skin, self-hatred, visceral in nature, enough that he can’t breathe if he lets it consume him. Because Lance, still the Lance that takes the weight of the universe looks to the fear beyond the happiness, in the eyes of the warriors. The fear in the eyes of children that emerge from collapsing tunnels, searching up at faces for a familiarity to calm the tightening of their chests. 

Valion follows their gazes too, upwards beyond the heads of the crowds, to the calm, blank faces of five Lions, watching over them. 

Pale-sun-sickness churns in his gut, a weakness in his legs that Eldar feels, offering his hand, wanting nothing more than to carry his lover to the confines of their nest and never let him leave. At least there he was safe. At least there, Eldar could protect him from the hurt. 

Instead, Valion turns to Zaos, knowing the battle not yet over. Ryul is there, listening, agreeing when their leader asks that the injured sent to Home Tree’s Hearth. Any able and willing to seek out survivors was to begin as soon as possible, those strong enough to dig to search beneath the snow piles. The Daratrine and the Ongar, impervious to the fires of melting hulls were to search the wrecks of the downed crafts. 

There is no order given, no shout to quieten the cheering. Just the glance to one helping another to their feet before joining the efforts to save those that can still be saved, to heal those that are hurt, to reunite children and parents, friends and families. 

Valion feels the churn in his gut, eyes downcast away from the stares of the Lions.  
He knows he cannot run from this. From them. From her. 

He will have to face them. 

He has to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the war has been concluded, but Lance faces another battle. And don't you all just hate me for leaving it like I have. 
> 
> Well, you're going to be a little more annoyed when I tell you that there will not be an upload on Monday, as it is New Year's Eve and I will be monumentally busy. Instead, the next chapter will be uploaded on Wednesday 2nd, marking an entire year from when I first began writing this fanfiction. 
> 
> Thank you to all who have joined me on this journey so far. The story isn't over yet!


	45. A Want To Be Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance had never thought too much into the idea of reuniting with Voltron. Now, he sees it was practically inevitable, and is faced with six who, once familiar, are now strangers in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. 
> 
> Just a little note to say, that today’s upload marks a year’s anniversary since I first began writing this fanfiction. It's been a heck of a journey - not one as turbulent as Lance's, mind you - and although I'm sad we're coming to the end, soon, I'm also very pleased with how far we've come.  
> I want to thank everyone who has joined me as I’ve written this and stuck around through months of inactivity, whole rewrites and the filling of plot-holes, the bulking of characters and the slow construction of just a fraction of Voltron’s Universe.  
> Perhaps you’ve been with me from the start, perhaps you’ve stumbled upon this work, unfinished, perhaps you find this, months, maybe years since it is finished and fall in love with this little world and all the little characters inside just as I have done as I have written this. 
> 
> However you’ve come to join Lance, the Solnha and Voltron, I want to thank you for your support and all your positivity whilst reading this story.
> 
> Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara 

The battle is done.   
The Galra are defeated. 

_Caldara_ joins her children in their efforts to clear the snow fields of war. She calls rain down from the skies, clouds budding atop mountain peaks, gentle winter snow that falls, light as butterfly kisses to douse the fires and wash away their pain as much as she could. The songs of praise that filled the air are quick to quieten as all turn from their victory. The relief, the triumph, doesn’t completely fade, and smiles change from joyous to comforting, reaching out to the fallen warriors, the bleeding, hurting Solnha that lay upon the ground, their strength waning after a fight long fought. 

They are safe now.   
Their families are _safe,_ now. 

The wraiths don’t return to the ice fields, as Valion had thought they would, now the war is won and the fires burn themselves out.   
Instead, the white beasts stay, side by side with familiars that rode them into battle, charged upon their backs and trampled the Galra underfoot. 

They stay with the familiar that mounted them, kneeling without being asked, a deeper sense of understanding shared, to allow Solnha to crest their backs, slow and gentle in their stride as they, against their nature, enter the Home Tree to save lives that can still be saved. 

The Wraiths stay, moving alongside the Solnha that move away from broken skeletons of androids, to weary soldiers who hug wounds, snow upon burns to ease the pain. Some have resigned themselves to the veil, a hand in the palms of another, slow rumblings of gentle comfort for their ears as eternal sleep wraps them in its everlasting embrace. 

They are all victims of the war. All mourn passed family; Solnha and Wraith alike.   
They share pain, and share the hope of healing come tomorrow’s sunrise. 

Children don’t call for family. That comes after, they know this, taking point as the Solnha spread from where they stand, rivers and rivulets of aliens walking snow-stepped paths to fallen craft, to collapsed tunnels, to the sounds of cries for help echoing up as rain buries the silence. 

The aftermath is as brutal as the battle. 

Yet the battle has been won.   
The Galra have been defeated. 

But Lance faces another foe, impossibly more terrifying than the last. 

He stands, side by side with Eldar, their fingers still circled in one another, Lance leaning into his lover for warmth, for support, for courage. His damp, water-logged scent cloaks him. Even Eldar’s gentle palm on the nape of his neck does little to draw out spring-warmth, summer-song of birds leaving the nest for the first time. Instead it is black, empty-black, putrid-toxic tar-sludge-oil that crowds his feet and traps him where he stands, clawing at his throat, choking him, _can’t breathe, can’t breathe—_

“Calm down Arenphine. I am with you.” 

Lance remembers to breathe. He remembers how to pull air into his lungs, lets the heaviness ease, grounding himself to the tightness in his hand, squeezing him when he squeezes first. The dampness isn’t just his, he knows, feeling soft arms hold him closer, in indescribable need to protect his lover taking Eldar’s mind, despite his want for Lance and his family to talk, to forgive and forget. 

But Lance wouldn’t ever forget. Not after all they did and said, pushing him away, casting him aside. 

And what now? Would they demand he returned, keep him in check, ashamed and wary of the future problems he would bring to the rest of the universe, like they believed he brought to the team.   
Sure, he had fought with Keith, questioned Shiro and Allura’s judgement when he saw from another angle. So what if he had half-heartedly picked on Pidge when they needed to vent, to chase him from their space if only for a moment to tear their mind from the ever-pressing weight of missing family. So what if he had leant on Hunk, leant on Coran when he needed someone to talk to. 

But they were a _team._ They were meant to lean on one another. They were allowed to screw about, to vent, to release the pressure of being kids and being soldiers in a war much larger than themselves. 

But what now? 

_What did they want now?_

Valion leans into the touch on his nape, away from the pain in his body, his heart, his mind. He cannot banish the memories that fill his head, the deep dark, ever-present of Anadón’s lullaby that calls to him, sings in mocking laughter, teasing him because, _why do you still consider that everything might just go back to the way things were—_

“I’m fine El,” Lance says, a deep breath in, out. Another, long and slow, to rid him of the weight that sits heavy upon his chest. It doesn’t really work, but the thought counts, _doesn’t it?_ and already, he can breathe easier and everything is clearer and—

_There they are._

He sees Hunk first. 

The Yellow Paladin is hurrying away from him, his back turned, scuffed armour shining in the sunlight _Caldara_ pours down upon her children, splintered light, haloed snow clouds, diamonds that fall, like petals. Light, unfelt, melting upon his skin, his cheeks, tracing little silver lines as he watches someone, once very familiar to him, now strange, no more than just a name; a memory.   
He is the faded silhouette in a creased picture, sun-bleached, crumpled, the memory not as much it is a memory, but perhaps the imaginings of a child, staring at the photograph, pulling it to life in his mind. 

The Paladin follows his feet away from Valion, the beast he rode into battle standing tall and proud of such a knight that pilots him. He stands, ever watchful, admired in the gaze of Solnha that offer prayer to him, and praise to his rider, hurrying to the feet of the Black Lion, taller. Mightier. 

Familiarity calls from the depths of Valion’s mind; words he wishes he can’t hear, laughter that brings pain to his eyes and melted snowflakes to his cheeks. 

The boy looks much the same as another who stands in Lance’s memories. He’s smiling.   
It’s that same, well-earned, deep meaningful smile only slightly touched by the sense of mourning to come, ghost-kisses at the corners of his eyes when gaze falls to the Solnha that thank him, thoughts for them who cannot stand to celebrate when there are those that still call for help. 

Valion should… be helping too… 

They need him, his family, yet his mind cannot be torn away from the sight of the Paladins, the way they rush to one another, open arms. 

Not for him, _never for him—_

Another joins them, blue upon her breast, brightness in a smile that shines, as white and pure as snow that falls. 

The sight of the armour shouldn’t hurt Valion, but it does. 

Ice spears his chest, thorns creeping under his skin, ignored even by Eldar’s warm touch, painful even under the veil of calm his Arenphine projects, offering what he can, as Lance faces a nightmare he had hoped never to face. 

The paladin armour she wears is so fitting for the Altean Princess, that there is a moment when the Human finds himself wondering if he was ever really one of them to begin with. Maybe, once. But then, no, he wasn’t. He was never _one of them._  
It was always them, and him separate.   
Beside them, but always alone. 

The armour was once his, he knows this. It is Lance’s memory and it’s real: as real as the pain that pierces his chest, the curling of a darkness twisting inside him; devouring a relief at those, like himself, alive, well, still fighting. 

The relief he feels is that of a brother in arms, one that Lance feels and hates he feels because they feel no such relief for him. 

_Their eyes have not turned this way._

The Blue Paladin’s smile resembled what his used to be, filling his place more than just the pilot of the Blue Lion.   
Valion watches, frozen in place, helpless to do nothing but witness the truth Lance created himself when he accepted their dismissal and took himself to the stars. But the thought does nothing to stem the poison under his skin, the cold winds that fill his lungs, the numb, velvet of his tongue, dry, rasping breaths of desert sand—

She leans into Hunk’s one-armed hug. Pidge is pulled in with the other.   
The three of them were closer than he ever dreamed he could’ve been. 

A feeling like mountain dew warming in early sun’s light touched his upon mind. Eldar hums into the moment, leaning in as Lance pushes back, seeking him, feeling the weight of his presence in his mind, familiar, warm, like rock pools on the beach, warmed by sunlight, brimming with life between high tides, _ocean tides, whale song echoing in the deep, the warmth of gems, smooth in his palms…._  
 _…Warm. A beating heart…_

It was… _familiar,_ the thoughts conversant, distant in the way he cannot quite place the memories. But they’re not memories, just thoughts, pulled from the press of weight upon his mind, warm and inviting.  
Yet all at once there is a strength to her push, a strength that unnerves him, causing Valion to recoil. He turned away from her, back to the grounding touch of Eldar holding him close. 

“You should join them, my love.” 

_How?_   
_There is no place for him there._

Keith is slow to join his teammates. He doesn’t rush up to them like Allura does, keeps himself stoic and uniform as he stands, arms crossed, nodding to the others when they pull him into their talks. Perhaps it is this that makes Lance smile, knowing that somethings didn’t change.   
Keith was never one for group hugs, for great shows of affection, appreciation, or team spirit. He prefers to remain reserved, eyes sweeping over the Solnha that hurry about him, as if searching for something. Someone.   
As if he doesn’t believe the battle won, and he waits for foes to appear without warning. 

His guard remains, polite only to those that give him their thanks, offer him praise and gratitude in the time they can, before the aftermath takes their minds again.

The Black Paladin pulls the Blue in closer, pulls them all in closer; a brother, more than a leader. He has changed, like they have, time turning for them all, their stories continuing to weave even without him being beside them. 

Months. Only a few.   
It is all the time that has passed, but to Lance it could be a million years. 

Too long. 

Not long enough. 

Shiro is different, softer, warmer.   
But then, Shiro has always been warmer to the other paladins, more accepting of them, more approving of their actions. It was always Lance that barely got a second look. Never positive; a frown or words of dismissal. Backs turned away. Silence. 

_…Ocean tides, calm, salt-spray of rolling waves…_

Valion cannot hear the words they share, pain at the sight of relief in their smiles. Tiredness weighs upon the Black Paladin’s shoulders. He has changed the least. Or maybe, he has changed the most. Valion cannot say, watching from a distance, each second just a moment to compare it to Lance’s fractured memory he sought to destroy, to abandon, just as the Paladins abandoned him. 

The boy’s hand curls on his shiftblade, the creations form still and nonthreatening to anyone who didn’t know the power her could wield. Eldar must’ve noticed, by movement or by scent, his own souring to that of dry fruits left to wilt in midday heat.   
Yet there was no action to take it, Eldar knowing that the grip was comfort to him, the boy set to face the unknown of five that had hurt him once before. He didn’t want to be hurt again. 

There is no place for him there, never since he first left the soils of Earth, ferrying the true Paladins to their lions while he, replaceable, just a stand-in until she, more suitable, took his place—

_He was always watching from the doorway, caught up in the spell of their happiness like he watches a daydream, something keeping him from joining them as they dance in merriment, celebrate a victory well-deserved, earnt by their own hard work, overcoming the difficulties that Lance lay upon them from his mistakes._

_He stands, torn; unable to enter the room. He wanted to be with them, there, in the moment of laughter of happiness, the celebration a much-needed respite for all the Paladins. Himself included._

_But being with them, in their space, would force him to wear a fabricated smile and step on toes he didn’t have the energy to step on. A persona, exaggerating his rambunctious, flirty, and_ childish, _even with sincerity laced in. Compliments to Allura, to Shiro, the flirting with Keith was something he never had the confidence to do. He wanted to, wanted to show them they all meant something to him.  
But his words would only be seen negatively, the words not well met no matter how he praised them, no matt how he lay thick his joking tone, trying to bring some sense of humour into their constant days of war and war and _war.

He had to learn to be content with watching.   
He had to learnt to ignore the vice in his chest, ignore the constant pressure of crushing that wasn’t so much a pain, but a constant ache, an unsettledness that weighs on his lungs, his stomach, his mind. 

It was never just one occasion, no single moment that drove him from their sides until the final words were spoken and he realised the truth he had known all along. 

Lance wanted to belong. He wanted to be with them, not just to stand beside them, face the Galra head on, brave, head strong warriors that were the beacon of light and hope, the path to peace forged by the five of them… 

Lance wanted to belong, but there was never a place for him. 

Not with Allura, the Princess, the better pilot, the last heir to the Altean throne that was devoted to the good of the universe, to free the enslaved and bring about the downfall of the Galra. She never had the time to play friends; always the diplomat, taking advantage of every moment to spread the word of Voltron, to rally allies and push to unite and stand together. 

Not beside Coran, the healer, the doctor who didn’t raise a hand in a fight but to defend their home, still much stronger, in body and mind, pushing on when his family was lost, his home destroyed. He didn’t cry, he didn’t weep or lament or let it bring him down. He was stronger than Lance ever hoped to be, having no time to carry the weight Lance couldn’t carry himself.

Hunk may have been a friend with Lance once, a classmate to study with, run drills with, but come the mission of _space_ and _fighting_ and _war,_ it was with Pidge he found solace, found companionship in the like-minded gremlin that could keep up with his pace, keep up and push them both further. Lance had only ever been a burden to the pair of them. 

He had been a burden to Shiro too, to the Leader that needed strong, able fighters. Teammates that worked together, that fought beside one another, not _with_ one another, not someone stupid, pathetic, immature, someone who needed reminding what side he was fighting, who needed to be watched, to be coddled. He didn’t have time to pick up the slack, didn’t have time to be anything but a soldier on the battlefield—

Keith was much the same. Lance couldn’t be friend, nor rival with him. There was no common ground to would seat them both, no need to show comradery when they were simply two fighting on the same side. There wasn’t room for friendship, let alone romance despite the admiration Lance felt for a boy he thought similar, and stupidly, attainable. 

It is as it has always been.   
In the past, in memory and in as it is now. 

Them, together.   
Joyous. Happy. 

And he, here.   
Separate. 

_…Whale song, sweet melodies changing, churning beneath cresting waves… the sea sings to him—_  
No, _no!_

What is this? What are these—

For some reason, Valion had expected them all to look different, more so than he sees. But it is not so.   
The changes are miniscule. As small as the changes that surround himself, the ones he’s seen in the mirror upon the _Godolphin,_ the ones that others have noticed, and told him so, by Foci, by Or’, by Eldar. Anyone could see, his hair lengthened, the height of his being not just growth but a confidence that makes him stand tall, stand proud. The smile he wore was real, appeared more, shined brighter. 

The changes between Lance and Valion were pulled from his heart, for the sake of the Solnha, and perhaps for his own sanity too.   
He couldn’t be lover and soldier together. He couldn’t be husband and warrior at the same time.

He couldn’t be Lance. He couldn’t be who they knew him as, because that wasn’t who is was anymore. 

It didn’t matter that he himself had changed.   
Why should he think they had too?

_{They won’t change, Lance. To them, you’ll always be nothing.}_

Valion curls his fist, the shiftblade warm in his palm—

“Arenphine?”   
Eldar worries, shadows clouding his lover’s scent, the blossom-soft fading. He nuzzles down, into the warmth of Lance’s skin, pushing past copper-blood and wood-smoke, to velvet-tears, raven-feathers, the gentle spray of ocean water in shallow bays.   
Lance’s _klick_ buzzes in his ear, the voice of a nothing pushing past static, calling out for aid, calling out for another that could hear them. But before words can pass the veil into the world of knowing, to recognition and reply, Eldar takes the _klick,_ pressing a kiss to the boy’s cheek when he chases after it. 

“One thing at a time, my love.” 

He nods to those that gather in the shadows of their war beasts, still congratulatory in conversation, not caring for the Solnha that are left to pick up the pieces of their broken home. 

“They’re waiting for you.” 

Lance turned, not wanting what faces him. He doesn’t want them, not after leaving, after finding peace with Eldar, a home with Eldar, a family, a cause, a purpose—

He never wanted them.   
He will _never_ want—

_…Sunlight reflections, diamonds lit up as he holds them… the curl of pearl shells… in small hands, chubby fingers clinging to a treasure he’ll give to Mama…_  
It is _her._  
 _She_ is calling to him. 

“They are your family, Arenphine. Maybe they have been searching for you, all this time.”   
And Lance, still buried in memories, still reeling from scars carved deep into his heart; scars he thought healed and long forgotten, does not believe what Eldar does. 

“No. I don’t think so.” 

The first step is always the hardest.   
But following the first, comes the second, then the third, the fourth and fifth until Valion forgets to count the footfalls that separate him and the Paladins of Voltron. 

They cannot see him. They do not see him.   
They are caught up in their own relief, eyes turning up to the Castle where Coran comes to join them in a loading pod. 

_Rude,_ a voice speaks in Valion’s mind, steel-upon-stone irritation.   
It doesn’t matter that they are Defenders of the Universe, paladins of a force strong enough to rally the free people not yet enslaved by the Empire. They are here, upon _his_ home. And he, the Leader of the Solnha will be respected.   
No Second Son was allowed to slight him, in his halls no less, looking down upon the Solnha as if he thought himself better than all of them. Valion wouldn’t allow Voltron to do the same—

Coran has joined them.   
But Lance’s eyes do not stray upon the older Altean. 

Instead, they are drawn to those that stand beside him, to the four that Lance could never forget.

He had seen them, dead-eyes, bloodless, lifeless, _dead_ before him.   
Dying, out of reach, within his nightmares as he stands, helpless to watch them executed, one after the other, over and over, their screams haunting him even in waking moments when the pain is too much and his mind his pulled beyond the veil, _screams, screams, their screams and his, hands grip him tight, it’s Eldar, it’s El, he calls to him to wake, wake up Lance, wake up!—_

Lance’s steps hasten. 

He sees them, sees them all, standing tall among the Paladins of Voltron. He doesn’t know how, doesn’t know why, _doesn’t care for why,_ because they are alive, they’re alive, they’re not dead, _they’re alive—_

“Rayon!” 

Lance can’t help himself. He calls out for them, choking on a name that sits heavy on lips when the night is dark and he is alone in a nest, nightmares his own companions. _He needs them to be real, they’re not conjured of his mind._

They can’t be. They are too perfect to be hallucinations, not quite perfect to be the memories that ran with him through _Genwar’s_ tunnels, different to the family he sparred with in _Godolphin’s_ halls. 

He’s running, out of breath but running, racing his beating heart, dodging past Solnha that stop and turn at the name they hear Valion call. It is a name they all know, having heard of him from Valion’s tales, from the prayer Valion gave when the Hearth was lit and his name the first to be carved into Home Tree’s Hearth. Memorialised. Forever-standing. 

_…Whale song, sweet, soft… the foam of fleeing wave… trickle between stones, shell, sand…_

“Kenmare, Leonel!” 

He stumbles once.   
Doesn’t fall. 

Keeps going. 

“Uilt’xen!” 

_…Ocean tides, moonlight reflections…_  
 _She_ is calling to him. 

Warmth fills him.   
Real warmth, summer-time touch of golden rays wrapping around him, the scent of fresh blooms, ripe, sweet, juicy fruit freshly plucked from amongst emerald leaves, pushing away the ever-present chill of mid-winter. His heart swells, rising, relief and joy and everything bright and _happiness._ His nose burns, _Caldara’s_ winter kisses not to blame as tears brim his eyes, throat clenched, their names caught between sobs and coughs and a thousand words he wants to shout before he reaches them, _he needs to reach them, they have to be real, they have to be real, they have to be—_

“VALION!”

She sees him first, pushing past strangers, no care for them when it is her brother that calls to her, racing to her side. The brothers turn their heads to the her, the sounds of their own names being called with a voice they thought lost to the stars, to the oblivion they would find when their time came and they left this world too. 

“VALION!” 

They call him too, tears already in their eyes as they chase their sister, Leonel beside them as they rush forward, the four of them running, the space between them closing, shrinking, smaller and smaller— 

_Gone._

Uilt’xen caught him first, her long arms swift to wrap him in her embrace, his curling around her, grabbing armour, clothes, skin, anything to hold onto this moment that feels so real, this moment that he has dreamed since waking alone in Tho’s med-bay, with the sad eyes of ill news, his sister gone, his brothers gone, his family lost—

“You’re alive, I can’t—I can’t believe it, you’re—you’re,” she laughs, cries, sobs as she holds him, the two of them unable to keep their feet, sinking to their knees upon the cold of _Caldara’s_ snow field, the chill of fresh snow creeping up tired legs ignored, aching, numb, _don’t care, don’t care, they’re real, they are real, they are alive!_

They two of them are enveloped by Rayon and Kenmare who could not bear the burden of being away from the boy they long believed dead, Leonel just as quick to wrap arms, barbs, all his limbs around them like he attempts to cocoon them from every danger, every fear, never to let any of them be put in harm’s way, ever again. 

_… the song of stars, the gentle pale of the moonlight… soft and warm… comforting…_

“Brother, your face is leaking,” Uilt’xen laughed, her own voice cracking between the moment of tears, a hand catching his cheek, touch light, palm pressing gently over bleeding wounds, a finger brushing beneath his eye to catch a tear and wipe it away. “As are yours,” Lance smiled back, wanting to say so much but not knowing the words to express the happiness, the relief. 

But there she is, there they are, real in his hands, wiping away the tears he cries, an apology given in place of greeting. He still holds them, grips them all tightly, in their arms as much as they are in his. 

“I wanted to come back for you. I sent ships, I sent others,” he says, breathing breaking the words he needs them to hear. “I sent Gereen, ships, to _Genwar._ But there was nothing left, he told me, after the blockade, after the patrols gave chase—”  
“You destroyed it, we destroyed it,” Kenmare says, leaning down his forehead pressed to Valion’s. “There wasn’t anything left for them but us. No mines, but tunnels. We couldn’t find you, before they took us. We couldn’t find you, we thought you dead. We did not think—”

“I didn’t leave you.”   
Because they need to know that. 

Because Valion would never leave them, not then, not now not every. It was that Veil that took his mind. It was Eldar who descended into the hellfire for his Arenphine, unable to descend further for family when the Galra turned guns and laser and plasma, the very earth shaking, _Genwar’s_ rage uncontrollable, chasing them from battle before they could find—

“We know you would never leave us. But we lost you, could not find you. Orvis lied to us. She said she killed you,” Kenmare pressed, pulling back as Rayon moved in, not caring that tears wet his cheeks. “We believed her. We were fools and we believed her.” 

“Orvis is alive?” 

Valion shouldn’t care. His family are here, that is all that matters, but at the Arroyen’s name, he remembers the white-scaled monster that promised him death. He felt the sting of her whip on his skin, the slick of her tongue tasting blood from his cheek, heard her laughter as blade dove deep and he howled, to the skies, to the smoke in his lungs, heavy, heavy, _can’t breathe, can’t breathe—_

“She’s dead,” Uilt’xen assures him, breaking their gaze, to the six that stand, frozen, eyes wide, mouths slack, wanting, needing to be closer, it’s Lance, _it’s Lance, he’s alive, he’s—_

“She lied to them, tricked them like she tricked us. But she’s dead,” Uilt’xen says, pushing past the tremor crawling up her throat, tears not just relief but pain and fear and every bottled emotion she would never let anyone see before. “Keith killed her. He protected us, saved us from her. He killed her.” 

Orvis is no more. No longer a plague, no more a threat to him and his family. She is dead and gone, left to be nothing but space dust. Hers will be a name, passed around and then forgotten. She can’t haunt them, can’t hurt them, can’t bring them pain now that she is dead. 

_“Thank you,”_ Valion says, to the one that wears the colour of blood upon his chest, eyes sad in a way that Lance doesn’t recognise, that Valion doesn’t know. “For saving them, for keeping them safe,” Valion says, his words free-flowing like tears, his gratitude to all of them that saved his family where he could not, protected them where he could not, _took them from hell and let them heal—_

“I’m sorry,” he says again, turning back to his family, ignoring the chill of ice that spears him at the knowledge that _they_ saved his family, saved his brothers and sisters where he couldn’t, where he should’ve but couldn’t because he’s still Lance to them, still _Lance,_ never changed, still _weak,_ still _useless,_ just dragging everyone down, _dragging everyone into war—_

“I’m sorry, I vowed I would save you but I couldn’t—” words are broken by laughter and sobs alike, warm, relieved-laughter, hiccupped, marred by the despair of a truth that lingers, ghosting in his mind, the moment fading into monochrome, the truth inescapable—“but I’m sorry I left you, I’m sorry I did not save you—”

“It is not yours to ask forgiveness, but ours,” Rayon interrupted, voice weaker than Lance remembered. He was tired, of course, but still the joy bled through the weariness. He doesn’t feel the to Valion, doesn’t think to blame him for his weaknesses. _Couldn’t find them, didn’t find them, almost lost them—_

“We could not protect you on _Genwar._ You almost died because of us.”   
“But you were taken, because of me. Because of me you… you…,” Lance said, equally resistant to the confessions of failure. He didn’t want to hear it, it wasn’t their fault, it was his, _it was his—_

_…ocean tides… the slow crest… the setting sun and waning warmth…_  
 _She_ is calling to him. 

Leonel leans down too, tucking his spindly barbs around himself so he can move in close, feeling Lance’s warmth as real and not just a hope that lingered between the moments of slumber and waking. “But we did not lose one another.”   
“Only for a moment,” Kenmare added, much to the amusement of the Solnha watching on, taking pride in their Leader’s tears; shed for his family he thought lost. 

But no.   
They were here.   
They were here and they were alive. 

Valion cleared his throat, letting Rayon wipe his tears, laughing at him as they all pulled back, their touches lingering in resting hands, not ready to break apart completely. 

He turns to them, each in turn, tone schooled into one with authority: “You’re not leaving my sight. Never again.”   
“Nor you ours,” Uilt’xen laughed, unable to contain herself, pulling Lance back in, the five of them curled around one another, a mix of laughter, joined by those that watch on. 

She cups his cheeks and wipes away blood from his brow.   
He catches her tears on trembling fingers, reaching to Leonel, to Kenmare, to Rayon. 

“Alive?”

He doesn’t know why he asks, knowing that they are, they’re here.   
But still lingers the fear that this is another dream. He cannot stand knowing, cannot stand the thought that his mind has travelled beyond the veil, and that when they break apart, their touches leaving behind cold, bitter winds upon skin, that he’ll see the truth and this is nothing but futile hope and they are dead, bodies broken, buried in _Genwar’s_ hear, dead—

Pain returns to Valion’s heart, his hands squeezing. He doesn’t want to let go of this anger; doesn’t know why he has to break the happiness like this. He should just accept this moment, accept what he sees with his eyes, feels upon fingers, feels in his heart.   
But he cannot stop himself from asking, speaking aloud the same word that he has asked a thousand times over, only to feel their bodies crumble to dust in his hands as the nightmare laughs, feeding on shrill streams that strangle his throat. 

It’s the question he asks Eldar in the waking hours of night, when the Veil takes his mind and forces him to watch _Caldara_ burn, to watch Earth burn, to watch Zarkon take his Arenphine, take his family, take everyone he has ever loved and thrown them to the cold, dark, unforgiving of space. 

“Alive?”

“Alive,” they repeat. 

Slow.   
Strong. 

Truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAHHHH ALMOST THERE!!!!
> 
> They are in the same place, they see him, he sees them, he's going to face them, it's happening, everybody stay calm, IT'S HAPPENING!!!


	46. A Want To Be Solnha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance. He’s alive.

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

Red settled upon the snow, a purr resonating through her to Keith, in ode of comfort as he looks down upon the crowds, his eyes flickering to his left where the other Lions have settled, each of their Paladins gathered beneath Black. He sees Allura, sees the blue armour that chips away at his soul, like it has done a thousand times he’s seen it hung in the storage hall, seen it worn by the Princess who took the mantle with the thought that she was helping.  
Now there is no one to return it to, and it is hers to claim. 

They accept the thanks from those that pass by, hurried, unable to take pause in the moment of victory.  
Keith watches on, unfeeling, dissonant to the pain that prickles inside him at the thought that the last time they gathered after saving another civilisation, it was Lance who wore the Blue armour, taking selfies with aliens, full of light and laughter as he took pride in the efforts of the battle won. He had been among them, a part of the team, taking the praise and joined the aliens in giving it as he supported and respected his team. 

_Did he think himself unimportant then? Did he think himself replaceable, then?_

Regret stacks inside him, cemented by an uncaring that feels the weight, watches the wall rise higher and higher, and Keith, _does nothing._ The weight is punishment. It is the sentence given to him for failing Lance, failing himself, failing the two of them who could’ve been if he’d bucked up the courage and listened to the whisperings of his heart. 

Even if they never were together, maybe they could’ve been closer. Been friends.  
And Keith would’ve accepted that, if he could have nothing else. They’d been working towards it, he thought, before Lance left at the Universe lost sense. The two of them had been growing closer, opening up to one another, Keith’s eyes lingering longer as he admired the boy who brought happiness wherever he went.  
And Keith, who wasn’t as strong as he led others to believe, had let himself watch, admiring the boy as he laughed. When he _really_ laughed, because something had tickled him funny and he _was_ laughter, howling, clutching his chest, barely breathing for the laughter that bubbled up inside him, eyes scrunched up.  
Keith had let himself watch, when fat tears would roll down his pinked cheeks, a hand over his mouth to silence himself because he had thrown himself into the amusement so vehemently, it _hurt._  
But Keith admired him for it, admired the happiness that would last forever. It would echo through the hall, up into every room, cheering everyone who heard the melodic sounds, broken by snorts Keith always found endearing. 

Keith missed him. Terribly so. 

Lance, who was the perfect person to spar with. He didn’t have excuses, never felt the need to pull any from thin air. And Keith, warmth in his gut when he let himself think that Lance was eager to spend time with him. The heat upon his cheeks when Lance sought him out himself because _he_ wanted to spar, and chose Keith to be the partner to do it. 

Keith didn’t mean to invite the memories, but they came all the same, leaving the empty, hollow, painful nothing when they left. 

The ghost of a smile pulled at his lips. He hadn’t even noticed the memories had made him smile, but he has. It’s not warm, like the first rays of sun, but sad and cold, buried in mid-winter, at the depths of the ocean, the darkness of night that scares the child that cannot sleep for the monster that lurks beneath their bed. 

It is a sad smile, a cold smile, melancholic and bitter as he sits, alone in the privacy of solitude. 

It is as he as always done, when nights won’t let him sleep and his body won’t raise sword and defend against the punishment of the Gladiator’s swords. It does as he always has, when he takes himself to Lance’s room, no longer bare, no longer cold and uncharacteristically empty.  
Keith has returned everything to its place, everything from Lance’s private room to their place back on his shelves, books stacked on the floor, the game station and all his games lined up, side by side. His potted plants are returning to life, his glow rocks and glowing stars flicker each night as Keith lies upon the empty bed and releases his mind, letting himself fill with the peace of emptiness. 

Keith had entertained the hope that Lance had left, planned to return, but not until after he’d grown strong. He had hoped that it wasn’t that the others had pushed him aside, but that he’d done so to be stronger for them, holding his own weight and there, to prove them wrong, to fight their words and show them all he was the Blue Paladin.  
Was once.  
Not anymore. 

Lance wouldn’t return to claim that title.  
He wouldn’t.  
Couldn’t. 

Because Lance was dead. 

The pain pushed through him, breathed life into his lungs, pulled red from grey and forced it down his throat until he turned and vomited all over the floor.  
Love was as painful as regret, tearing into his heart, blood turning to lead, his body heavy, heart heavy, _starving,_ punctured with every memory, every ghosting whisper of a name that wouldn’t call back, _wouldn’t, couldn’t, dead—_

Keith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring past reality to the memories that hurt the worst; to the memories that reminded him of a love lost before it could ever be. 

And with the memories came the hate, as hot as fire, burning, rage, suffocating, making it hard to breathe. He knew he loved Lance and he ignored it. Pushed it down for the sake of the team, for the sake of completing their missions, for the sake of not caring too deeply until Lance became a weakness he couldn’t afford. 

Keith hated himself for denying his own feelings, because of fear and a restraint he wished he’d never had. He had lied to himself, telling himself he’d lost too much before; lost his Mom, lost his Dad, lost Shiro to space and that vowing to never lose another would be the armour his heart would need until the war was done and he’d let himself take a step closer to the boy whose smile shone brighter than all the stars in the night’s sky. 

What a fool he had been. 

Lance would’ve never been a weakness. 

It wouldn’t matter that they were fighting a war in space, because it would’ve never have been just the two of them. They were fighting alongside the team, it would’ve never just been him looking out for Lance, worrying for him on the battle when they climbed into their lions and faced armies of anger, of hate and soldiers that wanted nothing more than to kill them.  
But Keith could never allow himself to feel. He feared fighting alongside someone he openly loved, his mind would be torn, knowing that if there was ever a choice between winning, and saving Lance…

He hadn’t saved Lance.  
He had left him.  
Lost him. 

_Loved him._

It was three words.  
Just three simple words that would’ve turned their worlds upside down and changed them more than either could imagine. For better, or for worse.  
_Wasn’t that what love was?_ All the fear of what ifs, only to be shared one another. All the hopes of the maybe that could only be explored hand in hand.

But Keith ignored it. He refused to accept the pining of his heart and put the pain down to aches from the missions. He refused to acknowledge it, never allowing himself to take more notice than a shoulder shrug and the occasional glance over his shoulder. Love and lust had been shoved to the side to make way for focus and patience.  
They were fighting a war. That was the excuse he found himself holding onto. He didn’t have time for love and emotions when they were in the middle of a goddamn war.

_All it had cost him, was Lance._

Keith turns his mind from the memories, to the team, blank returning to the entirety of his being. He watches on with dead-eyes, dead-mind and an emptiness he doesn’t even notice is there. 

Empty. Grey. Blank.  
He is a river that has run dry, the banks dry and crumbling, lifeless and motionless without thought or care to the difference he was once. A raging waterfall that pounds the rock and breaks the earth. He could mould it and change it, shape the world around him with his strength, his stubbornness and the force the drove him. 

Keith had no drive anymore. But he does not stand still, does not embrace the tide as he sweeps him off his feet and drowns him in his mistakes. 

Keith keeps goings, through no effort of his own. He is pushed, pressed, shunted and shoved. It is the force of another, of memories and a ghost’s words; a force from behind that was the weight of his responsibilities, of his negligence and the regret as heavy as the tombstone engraved upon his heart. 

It is Lance who stands behind him, hands on his back, a laugh at his cheek when Keith can’t. Lance is the one to encourage him when Keith starts to fall back, when he’s tired from the expectations, and the responsibilities and the weight of words never to be spoken because the one to hear them is no longer of this realm. 

It is Lance who stands beside him, holds his hand when he doesn’t know the path to take, when he doesn’t see the point in fighting. The Galra have been the reigning force in the Universe for the last ten thousand years. They are just seven.  
Six. Fighting, for the sake of fighting when the inevitable is obvious. 

It is Lance who stands before Keith, the light that guides the way. It is Lance who pushed ahead, who believed in their cause and, despite the words that hurt and carved and drove him from their sides, he forged his own path and stayed in the fight. He stood as Keith’s goal.  
Now, no more, but still the inspiration that Keith should aspire. 

To _fight_ on when the family that was his force gave up on him.  
To _stand_ beside others who needed his strength to be their drive.  
To _lead_ the repressed into rebellion against the Galra Empire. 

Keith turns his eyes to the Paladins again, Red in his mind, urging him to go to them. She is alive around him, being the comfort she thinks he needs, given even if he won’t take it.  
The vibrations of her purr thrum beneath the backs of his thighs, trembling through the bones of his fingers as his hands curl into fists, his eyes upon _his Blue._ Taken by _her._

 _[Go to them,]_ Red says, her words taking form to a conscious that he rarely hears from her. Only when she is desperate for him to listen, when she is desperate to carve through the empty, grey, blank.

 _[Go to them,]_ she says.  
And this time, he listens.

Keith doesn’t hurry to their sides. Ever since Lance left, a change took place in him, a shift in the ties with the team. He’d told them he hated them, for the words they unknowingly let Lance hear. He’s never accepted Allura as the Blue Paladin, as a stand in or now the permanent pilot to the Blue Lion. He’s held onto the anger he felt for Shiro for allowing her to push her way in, even if it has never been seen on his face or in his eyes.  
Hunk wasn’t hated until he began to entertain the idea that Lance was already dead, Pidge never really deserving of his anger until he remembered they had been the first to suggest that Lance was weak and hated by Blue, spurring the Princess into taking his place.  
But they were the four that would help him fight the Galra. No longer looking for Lance, but avenging him, protecting his family in his stead. 

Keith would honour Lance.  
That would be what drives him to continue the fight.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

It was cold upon _Caldara,_ the wind blowing soft, but chilling as it dragged its finger’s through Keith’s hair, the boy slow in making his way to the team. He smiled when the Solnha thanked him for coming to their rescue, his mask slipping on for their sake. A niggling in the back of his mind wondered if any of them had fought beside Lance before, if they had known him personally, before _Genwar_ claimed his life.

He sees the kin of the Draora, sees likeness in others and vast arrays of aliens that all offer their thanks, all wearing worn, tired smiles as they hurry past, some astride hulking beasts that turn away, to the smoking peak of the nearest mountain, disappearing into tunnels that must lead to their main base of operations. They cannot stop, cannot let themselves soak up their victory when the injured and dying need their help.  
Keith would join them, but Shiro calls him closer, an arm slung around his neck and he is praised for the efforts he’s given that don’t need praising. He did it to save the Solnha, did it for Lance, did it because it is expected of him as the Red Paladin. 

Keith doesn’t join their merriment, listening only to Shiro who says that they will wait for Coran and the others before trying to find someone in charge. Diplomatic introductions first, before offering aid. It was a pointless hierarchy Keith had no care for, letting the others decide between themselves as he watched the Solnha work, his mind empty of thought, Red in his mind keeping it as such. 

Not thinking helps keep him calm, helps keep the gentle mask of warmth upon his face, offering comfort to the Aliens where diplomatic etiquette won’t allow him to leave the team and take the arm of the one that hobbles near him, following others to the depths of the mountain. 

Keith watches, mind empty, eyes blank and colourless and…. and….alive. 

Alive. 

Alive. 

_Alive._

It is him, _isn’t it?_

It’s… it’s… 

It’s him, who was thought dead. 

The same boy that was waiting for him, the same honey-tinted hair swept back in the cold winds, the same idiot who has been missing.  
The same face, different and unfamiliar with the uncertainty he wears, he’s not smiling, but— _no, there, he is._ Slowly, ever so surely, beginning to smile, that same smile pulled back to reveal shining teeth. It is sadder, not as sure as the many that have graced his face countless times since the day Keith has met him… 

But he’s sure. 

He’s _sure_ that it is… it _is_ Lance. 

“Lance,” he says, the echo of his thoughts too much, too strong to remain as thoughts and nothing more, spoken to the cold winter air, caught up in snowfall, light as cherry blossom petals. _Lance, Lance, Lance, Lance—_

“Lance,” he says, because there he is. Shiro turns to him, concern playing upon his features at the sound of Keith’s voice, cracking on _his_ name. They had thought him dead, thought him lost to _Genwar’s_ fires, believing in the Solnha that they rescued because even they didn’t know any different. But no, they were wrong, they were all wrong.  
Because there, 

“RAYON!” 

He’s smiling, running, the smile upon his face so wide, so bright. It’s Lance. He’s alive, he’s okay. 

“KENMARE, LEONEL!”

The relief prickles at Keith’s eyes, tears on his cheeks before he realised, he’s crying. He’s crying and he doesn’t care, the relief, the warmth, the love that fills him pushing past all the thought of pride and strength and stubbornness. 

“UILT’XEN!”

Because only Lance could make him feel like this.  
Only Lance could make him cry tears like this, feel hurt and love and release all at once. 

Oh god. 

He’s _alive._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

“Alive,” they repeat, their words strong, spoken together at once, loud enough that they chase away the fears and doubts that clung to Valion like a second skin. He can’t help but smile back, each of them there before him.

He is like a child, unable to stop himself from turning to Eldar who stands a little behind them, on the edge of the crowd that watches, his scent warmth, like honey-milk, sunlight reflecting through light morning rain, the warmth of simmering coals beneath flickering flames.  
“They’re alive,” Valion tells him, a hand reaching to his Arenphine, beckoning him closer. Eldar accepts the invitation to join them, pulling them all to their feet, all four of his hands holding them, wearing the same, wet, bright-eye smile as Valion.  
“Welcome home,” he says, and it’s enough for Rayon to cry, a salute to his _Sault_ before they embrace, like old friends. 

“Lance?”

Ah. Yes.  
_How could he forget?_

They are there too.

They are waiting for him to turn to them. The ones that he once called _friends._  
He once called them comrades; the Paladins who he stood by their side, in this war that took them from their home, took them from the peace they knew, took them from the innocence of their simple lives and thrust them into the midst of galactic warfare and expected them to come out victorious.  
It was a war, that stole, so much more than it gave. 

But no, perhaps Valion was wrong. Because without it, without the departure of Earth, and the betrayal of the team, Valion would never be who he was today. He would never have the Solnha that stand beside him, behind him, supporting him. He would never have Eldar to call his own, never be loved by him, never to be held by him—

“Lance.” 

Cold creeps under the boy’s fingers; the biting sting forcing him to withdraw from the five that still greet, still hug and share the relief of finding one another again. They are joined by others now, other Solnha that know their names, that welcome them home with wide arms and wide smiles. 

Valion wants to remain with them, in that moment, wrapped in the warmth and love and the happiness that he feels at seeing his family alive, after so long, _really_ alive, _truly—_

“L-Lance?”

_No. No that’s not me._

He wants to ignore them, like they ignored him. He wants them to feel the hurt of backs turned, a cold glance and nothing more.  
But it’s more than that. 

Valion will treat them with the same respect as any ally deserves, but Lance fears the truth that the Paladins know. He doesn’t want to face them, to show to them, and show to everyone the truth behind the mask: that he _is_ weak, that he _is_ useless, that lying and twisting the truth was Lance’s game to play until he dragged the Solnha to the waiting Galra, like a lamb to slaughter. 

Valion doesn’t fear Voltron, but Lance does. He fears the claim they have on him, that will take him from Eldar’s side. He fears the truth they’ll speak, the hurt in his Arenphine’s eyes, the accusations that will tear their bond until Lance is truly left with nothing. 

          _They are here, to drag me back, I can’t go back to being weak, I can’t—_

_~You are not the same you who left them, Lance. You’re strong now. Eldar won’t turn on you for the words they speak. He loves you and he trusts you. They all love you, all trust you, if not they would not follow your lead~_

          _I… I don’t have to go back?_

_~No. You are strong now. You and I are one and the same. We are Valion, Leader of the Solnha, Galra’s Bane, Brother to those that will stand with us. And together, we are Lance, Heartmate to Eldar, Arenphine to the one that loves us.~_

_~ So what will you do Lance?~_

          _I’m not going to let them break me._

Because it is true. He is strong.  
They aren’t two separate beings. They are one and the same. Valion’s strength is Lance’s. And he will stand up for himself, for the home he has created, for the family that he is a part of. 

Lance will show the team that he has changed.  
He isn’t their seventh wheel anymore. He isn’t weak-willed, isn’t replaceable, isn’t a burden, isn’t a dead weight to drag them down. 

He’s changed. 

_He is Valion._

“L-Lance, oh my god it’s—I thought—we all thought…”  
The Yellow Paladin stutters, the first to speak to the Leader of the Solnha, addressing the Human by a name that means little more than the ties to a past-self he has abandoned. He talks fast, pacing unstable, stumbling over words, over air, over the need to get every word out in one sentence, as if words could heal the hurt that has separated them for so long. 

_The ocean is cold to touch, the shallows inviting but the shadows… beneath are unknown…_  
He doesn’t know what lies beneath. He cannot see.  
It is _her._ The one that stole him from Earth and used him like they all used him. She thinks it’s her place to speak to him, as if the silence can be filled by her cries and he will bend, once more, for her sake. He can feel the weight of her presence in his mind, but he will not let her in. She can call out for him, as much as she wants, longing for him like he has longed for his family. But it will not change anything. 

Valion ignores her. She is not his, and he is no longer hers. 

The one that wears the colour of Blue must feel the distance between herself and her lion. She is the first to break gaze with Valion, eyes upon the beast that watches over them, a hand to her head, magic under her fingers. Magic that curled its creeping fingers between their bond in the first place, played the strings like a harp until they were too taut, too tight and they snapped. She was quick to take Lance’s place. 

There’s some sort of satisfaction in the way that Valion watches the Blue Paladin call to the Blue Lion, only to be ignored. 

“L-Lance, oh god, we found you, we found you.” 

Those nearest Valion feel the change instantly: the retreat of his touch, pulling away from velvet-fur, the warmth of loved ones. His body stiffens, his eyes closed, scent souring into acid-rain, electric-fear-rainstorm-irritation, toxic-sludge anger—  
Eldar’s hand upon Valion’s shoulder, the whisper of “ _Arenphine”_ lost to the tempest in his mind, jaw clenched, holding back his own words as the Yellow Paladin ploughs ahead, feet bringing them closer to where Valion stands amongst his family, wanting to be with him, to reach out, to touch him, to close this gap, “you don’t know how much—I mean we all— and we were searching—”  
“Thank you,” Valion says, words loud, final in their tone that stutters the Yellow Paladin into quiet. 

The boy doesn’t meet their eyes yet, instead letting his gaze flicker between his family, praying that he wasn’t about to lose them. _Not after he’s just found them._  
Their eyes meet his, the smallest of flames in their eyes as they give him their strength. Unwavering. Loyal. Strength that has been tested upon the battlefield and here, they all stand.  
If Valion asks, it is his. But he needn’t ask because it is his already; they’ve given it without hesitation.  
Because they love him.  
Because they trust him. 

All that watch remains silent. They too, can sense the change within their Leader, the bright warmth of his happiness paling, the light of his smile flickering like a flame in the wind.  
They do not understand why, do not voice their question, but still, remain grateful for him, for his family returned, grateful for Voltron for saving them all, this day. 

But they don’t know Voltron like Valion does. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, standing tall; ice around his heart, lungs, stomach, everything crushing under a weight he cannot shift. Smoke on his chest in his lungs, _can’t breathe, can’t breathe—_

“Thank you for saving them. For saving all of us,” Valion says, finally, turning to where Voltron stands before him. 

“You saved them, and for that I am grateful. You came to our aid when we owe you no allegiance—” _the words hurt him, god, they hurt him,_ but he cannot, cannot forgive those that tore him down, kicked him aside, _thought nothing of him when he thought the world of them—_ “—and for that, I am in your debt. We all are,” he says, turning, wide arms gesturing to the Solnha that gather, lending eyes and ears to words they share.  
He has allowed emotion to fill his voice before, but not now, when he can’t, when he must remain in control. He is Valion, here, Leader of the Solnha and he will protect them. 

First, he must come to understand, what side Voltron stands on. 

They are different to his memories.  
Hunk, the closest, looks undeniably older.  
His face, once round and plump, like an adult that held onto the tender of baby fat was more chiselled, the softer edges more defined like that of his father’s. He’s no more a boy, but a man that has grown into the role of soldier, yet the softness of his tone tells Lance he’s lost none of his warmth.  
His, if he wanted it, willingly given to anyone who would meet his open arms. 

In the split second of rushed memory, Hunk is the tenderness of the hearth after a day of rain, the call of a mother beckoning children home. But the thoughts evaporate as quick as smoke, leaving Valion to stand before the Yellow Paladin of Voltron, a soldier in his own right, who has played his part to protect Valion when they fought on the ice fields, defending Eldar when they stood separate in battle. 

Shiro’s face is held, suspended between grief and joy. Valion’s eyes flicker to him, to the familiar visage of a leader, much like himself, the likeness of empathy flickering inside him at the knowledge that this man, like him stood divided. He understood him, so much more now, now that he had experienced the same.  
The two of them were fragmented in nature, but the experience that demanded it of them. Valion and Lance. Shiro and Takashi.  
But there was no compassion for a man that didn’t understand Lance hadn’t been like him then; the boy that laughed and joked with his friends the same boy who climbed into the ancient war beast and stood fast against his nightmares.  
The same Lance that threw himself into training, the same Lance that bit his tongue during every lecture, the same Lance that tried his hardest for the sake of the team was the same Lance that couldn’t settle the insecurities that grew from every rolled eye, every second glare, every click of the tongue.

Valion would offer no forgiveness to one who should’ve known, better than anyone what it was like to lose everything, without knowing if he would ever have it again. 

Valion pulled his eyes from the Black Paladin, to his left, settling on the Altean Princess. He didn’t hide the way his eyes sharpened, the rush of anger fuel to the fire that warmed him in _Caldara’s winds._ She looked to him, hope and fear and worry in her eyes. 

And he _hated it._

He wanted to hate her too, to turn them all away for siding with the one that cast him out first. A small part reminded him it was his own actions that took him from their sides, but Lance had always held onto the hope that he’d be able to hold on, to grow strong and prove his worth before they ever pulled him from the place of Blue and threw him to the side; just another supporting cast member that couldn’t remember his lines. 

Lance’s anger remains checked, an invisible hand clamping his throat, the tension of his body the chains that Valion gives, to keep them strong, to keep them together, in the moment. Anger can come later, if he’ll allow it, but for now he will be like her; diplomatic and distant from the emotions that rage within him. 

Bitter-sea-salt-brine permeates the air – only the sensitive alert to _tae-Sault’s_ aura. Eldar offers his support with the smallest of motions; stepping closer, but not moving to erase the gap completely. He knows Valion needs to be seen as strong, to weather their storm, to stand against his nightmares and show them the man he has become. He knows he only has to wait, to watch, and let the love of his life choose to forgive and forget. 

But he’d never forget. 

Never forget that it was Hunk, always kind and caring, for everyone except Lance, who needed him the most. He wouldn’t forget that it was Allura, who offered herself so eagerly, that it was Shiro, all too willing to accept without giving Lance a second chance. He wouldn’t forget that Coran remained silent, that they all remained silent, no one on Lance’s side. 

He’d never forget that it was Pidge who silenced him in the first place, that it was Pidge who was the first to voice their concerns, the first to speak up and declare Lance the weakness of the team, the one that needed replacing. 

He looked to them now, eyes cast over the shortness of their stature, the pale of their face carrying the weight of their mistakes. Maybe they were beginning to understand what they had done, what their words had done. They should know. They were meant to be smart.  
But Pidge cared little more than what was needed; their circle only enough for their family and the others in the team. They’d make use of Lance, but that was as far as their relationship went. That’s as far as all his relationship went: _stand-in, until replaceable._

They had replaced him. They should be happy.  
Perhaps not Coran, who has to watch the only semblance of blood-family throw themselves into war. He was the only one that wanted Lance to remain. Even if it was so Lance risked his life, in Allura’s stead. 

“L-Lance…” 

Valion knows they don’t understand his need to abandon the boy he once was, names and all familiarity with it. They don’t know him by any other name than that of _‘Lance.’_

Still, even the boy cannot forget himself, and turns to the spoken word of Human name. 

Keith stands there, torn in the moment of running to him, and running from this stranger that bears another’s name, bears his face and the scars carved by his own hand. 

Keith hasn’t changed. Not really.  
His hair might be longer, and the slight veiling smile the pulls at his lips might not be the one that Valion can compare to Lance’s memories, but it’s still the same stranger. Friend. Rival.  
Purple eyes the spark with lightning, the intensity of their gaze still powerful, still prickling Lance’s heart as it has always done, when he is the focus of the boy’s eyes, and Lance can imagine himself reflected in purple irises, soft and warming like the coming Dusk, cold like the metal of his second blade, just as sharp and as terrifying. 

But Valion isn’t scared. He meets his gaze and does not break it. There is confusion to the sight of tears, a longingness in the boy’s eyes that he has seen within his own a thousand times, when he chased Keith’s back, when he chased the hope of standing beside them all. One of them. _Together,_ with them. 

It is the same light that Lance lost, when he lost his way.  
But it was Eldar who returned it to him. Eldar and the Solnha who found the boy, and accepted him and loved him, faults and all. They welcomed him with open arms. He has grown so much. He’s fought his own demons, in the forms of Anadón and Ovule and _himself._ He’s learned he’s worthy of love, that even when he didn’t think himself worthy of their love, they would love him regardless. His brothers, his sisters, his _family._

Lance learnt that his faults, his quirks and his weaknesses were what made him _him,_ and that they loved him because of them, not in spite of them. 

Keith would’ve never loved Lance like that. Or maybe he could’ve.  
Lance had gotten close to him, the two of them never being anything that resembled more than comrades. Just spar-mates, teammates, two players in the same game.  
Nothing resembling friends. Not like Lance wanted. 

He had never known the boy behind the blade, the truth behind the mask of orphan and anti-social and guarded. He could never know what lay in their future, if there was anything more than the fragile construct of Paladin and Paladin, fighting on the same side. 

“Lance.” 

Keith calls for him now, a step taking him from beside Voltron, to where Valion watches with hard-set eyes and an expressionless mask that is his only armour to those that know of his weakness, his quirks, his faults. 

And despite the familiarity of the boy’s being, the emotions he wears are so fragile, so open that Valion’s mask cracks, the furrowing of a brow the only word between them as more tears trickle from Keith’s eyes; red and misted. He wears pain upon his face, hurt in the same words he speaks, uncertainty in the tension that fights his own body as he takes another step, halted only by the Black Paladin’s hand that grabs his wrist, ground him, holds him. 

“Lance.” 

Silence builds where words cannot be found.  
They watch him, their faces masks of emotions he doesn’t understand why they are worn. Furrowed brows, wide eyes. Slack mouths that hold questions and words he doesn’t wish to hear, let alone answer. 

Valion recognises hurt.  
Their leader, the Black Paladin; confused. Fearful. 

_Why?_

Valion has shown them no hostility.  
At least, no more than they deserve. 

“Lance, it’s… it’s _us.”_

They need to understand that isn’t him anymore.  
He is not the same boy that left. He is not who they thought they know. 

“Lance—”  
“Who?” 

Valion’s word is simply, softly spoken but still it is mightier than any blade, brought sharp and sure, severing the ties that tethered him to Voltron. 

He was not Lance. 

He had been cast into _Genwar’s_ fires and born from her ashes.  
He was Eldar’s Heartmate.  
He was Brother to allied, Bane to the Galra and all he stands against.  
Blessed by the Star-Child, Guardian of Caldara and her children. 

He was Valion, Leader of the Solnha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter #47 due to be uploaded 14th


	47. A Want To Be Forgiven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Solnha were right. They are Lance’s family now.  
> But not all of Voltron find it easy to accept the truth, now that they’ve finally, _finally,_ found Lance. 
> 
> But it’s not Lance.  
> Not anymore.

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

“Lance?”

Because it is.  
It _is_ Lance. 

“L-Lance, _oh god,_ we found you, we found you,” Hunk laughs, the first to speak, seeing what they all see in the same instance; not a ghost, not a memory. Not a name to be passed in sorrowful speeches, wishing for better days, wishing for _easier_ days. But they see Lance, as he stands, more precious than any memory, standing strong, even after all this time, after the battle… 

“Ah, thank god,” Hunk says, laughs.  
The first to speak, but that last to understand that Lance… that _Lance…_

Because there is a difference in this boy, that stands as if he lifts the weight of the Universe upon his shoulders, the brightness of a smile that was once so full of life and love and _Lance,_ just simply fades away when he turns to face them; swept away by the chilling of snow winds. The emotion that remains is unnameable, dry as bone, brittle as the threads of fate that still tie their lives together, frayed and worn thin, but still there. 

_Still there._

“You don’t know how much—I mean we all— and we were searching—”  
“Thank you,” Lance says, the crack of his tone thunderous, the sting of leather on bare skin that demanded silence. _Take heed,_ the warning screams into the silence that surrounds them, the weight of the Solnha’s watching gaze nothing to the _fire-bitter-ice-resentment-hate_ that layers thick beneath the distance of Lance’s words.  
He bears no emotion upon his face; the blank mask the armour he wears. For their sake? For his? 

But the mask does not conceal his eyes.  
They are no longer the warmth of deep-soil, the caress of the hearth-fire cradle, the deep, earthy-richness of hot chocolate on a cold, winter night; now the cracked earth of drought-drained lakes, the husk of corn that burnt in the sun, the crisp of leaves, wet and damp as rot drags it into mud and canker.

The mask doesn’t hide the hatred that burns within his gaze. 

_Lance._

“Thank you,” the boy repeats, but there is no emotion in his words.  
Politeness, perhaps, and a tempered edge that slights his words with distaste and a discolour that battles the truth that they know. 

Lance is never just _polite._

Lance is more. Lance is confident and cocky and anything but simply _polite._  
He is loud and boisterous, as if music is blood in his veins, the pulse of his heart demanding he never stands still, demanding a shift in the silence. He is the ink to a world of water, staining everything with colours until their lifeblood thrums with the same happiness, the same energy, the same innocence that Lance has held onto, so far from home, so deep in war. 

Lance is the light in the approaching twilight. He doesn’t shine bright, burn hot, like that of fire and molten stone. But when the winds blow and the storms laugh; deep rumbling that warns of coming rain, Lance stands tall, the flame of his heart strong in the battering winds. He doesn’t raise his sword to the shadows, or scare them back into the fissures deep in the earth, knowing that come the following night they’ll be there to challenge him again.  
Instead he stands to face them, and with his words he speaks, greeting them with a smile as soft as feathers, the shine of his eyes reflecting the stars and his own bravery that keeps him tall, keeps his heart burning. He speaks to the darkness and beyond, to those that cloak themselves in shadows, to hide from that which scares them.  
Lance is the guiding hand that brings them to the fire’s light, where the dark of night fades from their skin and they can breathe the cool cold air with no weight upon their chests. They are still afraid, but that is the nature of all things that stand on the brink of the unknown, their fears real and alive and bloodthirsty. 

This time, Lance stands with them. 

But who is this that wears his skin and bears his name, that stands ready to fight. 

He is blank and empty, colourless compared to the unrestrained joy that soaked his being when reunited with the four Solnha, carried from _Genwar,_ to _Caldara,_ finally reunited.

Now, the boy speaks simply, efficiently and mechanical; as pale and cold as the winds that sweep around them. The ink of his skin holds warmth and colour, but none is given to those that have been searching, nothing but a calculating gaze, as if he could tell all of their worth if he just looked at them long enough. 

The judgement unnerved Shiro, unable to meet Lance’s cold, hard stare until his own eyes sought for more warmth. Rayon and Leonel, with who Shiro had grown close to in their short time together, held the look of sadness that didn’t fit their features. Their lights were dim, eyes offering a small apology before Shiro steeled himself as Black Paladin, and met with Lance’s eyes again. 

They burned with a spark, uninviting and cold, powerful and unnatural.  
Shiro feels the force against his body, the push from the boy that stands before them, betrayed, broken, forgotten and forged into something new. To him they are another foe. And the understanding that for Lance, it is true…. 

_Shiro is heartbroken._

He wants to break this distance. He wants to apologise, he wants to fucking beg for forgiveness, on his hands and knees, to grovel in shame, pray that Lance hears the truth that he never meant it, _he never meant any of it._  
All those hurtful things he had ever said, all the time he had ignored the boy, every wrong word, every shout, every turn of the head when Lance only wanted to be stronger, only wanted to push himself, _for them._

For _all_ of them. 

“Thank you for saving them. For saving all of us.”  
But despite the barren of warmth, there _is_ emotion. Wavering, the subtlety of shake to his tone, standing tall, standing strong against Voltron. It isn’t aligned with fire, nor storms of the ocean, nor the biting, chilling wind that plays with the boy’s hair affectionately, only to drag cold, sharp nails across Shiro’s face to tear his eyes and sting his cheeks. 

“You saved them, and for that I am grateful.”

Shiro believes him. 

Because they had given him the four the loved him, irrevocably, loyally loved him. And they brought warmth from him. For a moment they had seen the real Lance, _their Lance,_ alive, laughing, happiness, warmth, smiling—

Shiro believes him. 

_They_ are his family now. They have been for a long time. Even the Solnha understood the truth of words that stung like rain, thrown in anger because _“how dare they claim him as family. Where is he now? Where is he if you call him brother!”_

Because they understood Lance. Because they accepted him, welcomed him, loved him wholly. They never cut him down for his mistakes, never reprimanded him, never compared him to anyone else, never let their words be the weapons that carved into Lance’s heart, into his being, into his _soul…._

The Solnha were right.  
They are Lance’s family now.

“You came to our aid when we owe you no allegiance, and for that, I am in your debt.”  
Because to Lance, that is true. He thinks he has cut ties, think Voltron has cut ties with him when he left them. He thought they thought nothing of him, not even worth searching for as they spanned the cosmos.

So, he forgot them, moved on, began to live his life as well as he could amidst a war. 

Lance is wrong. They didn’t abandon him. Wronged him, yes. Betrayed his trust, yes, they did and they can’t change that. Neither can their words change his mind. The can’t change what he believes if he refuses to listen, no matter how much they wish for the hurt to be healed, the fraying of thread to be retied and retied until their bonds are as strong as piano wire.  
They have to amend for their mistakes, to alleviate the hate that burns in him, the core of his being magma and molten stone, but everything else dead and lifeless with now sign that he’ll ever welcome them—

“Lance…” 

Keith. 

Keith never gave up. 

No matter the words, no matter the thoughts of the team and those around him, Keith had never once drawn back. He had never allowed himself the luxury, never let himself bow to tiredness, to the fatigue of the never-ending quest drain him until standing was hard and fighting was harder. 

Keith had refused to accept that Lance was gone for good. He’d never mourned his loss, never thought to the line in the sand, never considered that there would be an end that wasn’t them and Lance reunited, smiles and happiness and maybe tears. 

“Lance…” 

Keith never gave up.  
He grasped the hatred and blame in an iron-clad grip, turning them inward to stoke the fires in his heart. He accepted the heartbreak as punishment for his failure, accepted the dissonance and distance from the team as much the same. 

As the number of days lengthened, it became clear to see the change in his being, his eyes sparking at the mention of Lance, or the hint of hope that they were nearing the end of their question.  
Shiro had watched over him since they first met, keeping him close and guiding him, even in space. Now the guiding hand was now one that couldn’t let go, for fear of losing Keith to his own darkness, the eyes that watched him now dripped in worry and concern. Even when they learnt of _Genwar,_ when they had the help of the Marmora and it truly seemed like Lance was around the corner, Shiro feared for the boy who was, in all essence, his little brother. 

He was still prone to acting without thought, acting on instinct if it allowed him closer. 

And now, there was Lance. 

Keith would never accept the truth that Lance felt. So torn, so caught up in searching, he hadn’t thought of any other possibility other than a warm, happy reunion. 

But Shiro knew it was anything but that. 

The boy had cut ties, seeing them as nothing more than … well, Shiro didn’t know what Lance saw them as, but by the hardening of his eyes, he didn’t expect they would be welcome on this Planet much longer. It was Lance’s home, and these Human’s, no matter that they were like him, would not be accepted.  
The tie of debt was their only link now. It was the only thing that would allow them to speak to this boy, so similar and so different to who they once knew. 

“Lance.”

But Keith wouldn’t see that. All he had focused on, all these months, was finding Lance. Finding Lance and bringing him home. 

Voltron wasn’t his home. 

Voltron wasn’t his family. 

How could they have not seen that? How could they not understand, what was so obvious, so clear that even the Solnha understood it, and they were never told, never witnesses the break and the tear and the fraying—

“Lance, it’s… it’s us.”

Us, the ones who betrayed you. 

Us, the ones who hurt you. 

_Us._

The ones who have found you, after you ran so far. The ones who took you from Earth, who took you from peace and happiness and a life worth living to being nothing but a pawn in someone else’s war. The ones who treated you like dirt, no, like _less_ than dirt and expected no complaints, only compliancy. _Yes Sir, no Sir, as you wish, Sir._

Lance knows who they are.  
He just doesn’t care. 

“Lance—”  
_“Who?”_

Because Lance isn’t their Lance anymore. 

It sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. Lance’s truth. Because he doesn’t need the name that means little more to him than the him who he used to be, who was pushed aside for the sake of the war and victory and future. He cast aside the charade he wore, cast away the memories of them who, never meant to hurt him, never meant their actions to be seen as hatred, as disgust. 

But what they mean and what he saw was the weight of the difference that could never be fixed with time alone. 

It was Shiro’s own words, sharp, fierce, pushing Lance away, pulling Allura close.  
They were never meant to be cast as judgement, but the gift of fresh air as Lance, unknowingly, drowned.

They didn’t hate him. They didn’t think him weak or unworthy. Their actions were the careless, flawed thoughts of a team that did him wrong and drove him away.  
The Lance that faces them is one of their own making. 

“Wh-who? What the fuck do you mean, _who?”_

Because Keith, left to hurt and wallow in the pain of losing the boy he had loved, still loved, never let himself mourn—  
When Lance left, Keith’s constant companion was that of anger. Now they stand, hand in hand, the anger that he had turned inwards to keep himself fighting, to feel the punishment and fight anyway is rearing its ugly head because this boy that they’ve found, this _fucking idiot_ who left them, who let the words be spoken and cowered in the shadows rather than standing his ground and fighting back—

“Lance, what the fuck—”

But anger cannot be the emotion they feel.  
They don’t deserve the luxury. This is their fault after all, unequally so, but still they all hold some measure of blame to the distance the looms between them, the invisible, unbreachable wall that separates them and will remain to separate them until Lance choses to let them in. 

But no. Who they face is not Lance.  
It is Valion.

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

Valion waits.  
He has made his move. He has shown them the die that has been cast, and they must choose if they accept it or not.

If they do, then the path is clear and the beginnings of an alliance can be put into motion, if that is what they have come here to discuss. 

If they do not…

“Lance? Lance, c’mon, it’s us. It’s me, it’s Hunk,” the Yellow Paladin says, pain pouring from his voice into the world, the feeling so real, so familiar Valion can feel it like a knife in his chest. It takes all his strength not to flinch when the stranger takes a step forward, pushing past Red and Black, hand outstretched—

“It’s me, it’s your best frie—”  
But the boy and his words go no further. 

He was barred by the tallest, confusion and fear no longer the mask he wore. Now, his eyes looked upon another, a Leader, much like himself, his eyes sad, misting like the beginning of rain. He holds something familiar in their depths. Something Valion recognised. 

It gave him reason to give pause. 

Then the light is gone and the Black Paladin clears his throat, standing taller. He is a soldier once again, easy to understand. “We responded to a distress beacon. We’re glad that we could offer you our assistance against the Galra.”  
The others around him seem confused by his words; logical, thought carefully and with ease that puts him apart from the memories that do not understand. Valion lets himself glance to where they stand. 

The smallest, draped in Green looks like they wish to speak, hand holding tight to the one in Blue that hasn’t torn her eyes off of Valion since he had appeared before them. They remind him of Or’ with the way they share their short stature and the need to cling when confusion shrouds them, much a child as many that take shelter in the Home Tree.  
He cannot help the quirk of his lips, pulling his gaze before it can fully form a smile. 

The Red Paladin remains, much like the Yellow, unable to move forward through Valion’s silent warnings and the unspoken orders from their leaders. Whilst the Yellow watches on in pain, the more concerning is he who stands, drenched in the colours of blood.

He thrums with an energy, his aura-scent suffocating, strong enough that Valion could almost see the liquid-acid-fire-heat of anger, pale-sickly-yellow-waning moon of fear, sour-apple-wax-soil regret. He is an enigma of emotion, not one long enough for colour to stain his shadow, too soon another before his scent can permeate the air.  
Fear, pain, hurt, wariness, anger, hurt, fear, hurt, _rage-hurt-pain—_ all swirl around him, until he is too much to look at. 

Stone-steel wariness stands behind, the familiar wash of Blue intrinsically Eldar, ready to stand fast for his Arenphine, should ones that once he knew stand as threat to him.  
But the Red does not move, only dwell in his twisted, ever-changing emotions. 

_[… -ub… m-…]_  
The Blue Lion still calls out. 

Eyes cast to the Blue Paladin show she is unaware of the distance between her own bond and the one that Valion shares, still fractured and hollow from time spent apart. Yet still, stronger. 

She a step closer, not past the Yellow or Black, but enough that eyes move to her, to the pleading in her own stare, fixed upon the Solnha familiar. She thinks tears will mean something, that Valion will care for every tear shed, to jump to her whims because she wants to tell him _sorry,_ no doubt. 

The pain at having seen her wearing familiar armour mocks him, something cold his companion as they share the thought that she was not as strong as he thought she’d be. What a fitting punchline to the joke she started, when she took his place and stole the mantle that he had worked so hard to fill.  
_And he thought her his replacement?_ It was almost entertainingly comical, but no such emotion played outwardly on his face. 

Instead, he returns his focus to the Black Paladin, who has been the first to address him appropriately. He allows amusement to cushion his words, a polite cheeriness and small smile that would adorn his lips when he spoke with strangers. It was done, not just to appease the concerns of the Black Warrior, but the Solnha who watch on, silent in the face of the tension. 

“Your assistance was welcomed. As are you, in thanks for what you have done for us.” 

They’re not.  
Not really.

But what else can Valion offer? 

Voltron, like many, are allies on the same side of the war. For those that support the Solnha he has to show that he is grateful, and that working together breeds goodwill and benefits for both parties. The Ongarites, Daratrine and Draora clans have all been met with hospitality, yet with the Solnha as they are, so soon after battle, there is little chance to offer more than smiles and words. 

“Thank you, Valion,” the Black Paladin says. There’s something strange in the way he says his name, but Valion can’t help but feel the swell in his chest at the efforts of the older. His own scent lifts, the weight on his shoulders even more so, a flicker of warmth upon his fingers as he yearns to take the man’s hand, to let the mask slip for a moment and show him, _really_ show him, how much he has changed. 

Shiro’s hand moves, not to offer a handshake, but instead raised to his brow as he adopts the Garrison’s custom of saluting.  
It’s so Human, so familiar and so much like home that Lance isn’t prepared. His mask – cracking – cracks further.  
His hand began to move on practiced instinct, the muscle memory of saluting to his superior already—  
_No._ No, they are not on Earth. 

And he is not Lance. 

Instead of the custom Earthen movement, Lance brushes his hand beneath his chin, before extending his hand outwards, to Shiro, his palm facing up. The motion brings more confusion to the Paladins.  
Yet it is the elder Altean who looks the most saddened by Valion’s attempts to clear the air between them. To allow breathing without the annoyance of choking at least.  
He returns the salute, clear, concise, the theatrics of the sweeping movement quick and without the need of his usual flourishes. He doesn’t return the half-smile Valion gives in response.

“I apologise, but I cannot offer you cordiality,” Valion says, turning away, back to the Black, the Yellow, his eyes sweeping across the six that stand before him. His words are no longer cold, but any meaning and emphasis is locked firmly behind his mask. Anything genuine to be offered will be given once he knows for sure what their intentions are.  
Hunk claims they have been searching for him, but for why and what reason have yet to be learnt. 

Silence draws in again, heavy with the crowd that lingers, some new and old faces as Solnha are drawn away by others, and drawn in by the rising pressure that permeates the air. 

Valion wishes for Eldar closer. He can feel him, feel the touch of his presence in his mind just beyond his reach, but something stops him from looking for his lover. It’s a silly idea; the notion that he wants to prove he can stand alone; that this is his strength that has taken him from their sides, to the seat of Solnha _Tae-Sault._

Instead, Valion’s eyes remain on the group before him, trying to keep his mind blank and focused as his eyes flicker, back and forth.  
_Paladins. Soldiers. Warriors._  
_Humans. Altean._

_Strangers._

He knew them once.  
Not anymore. 

Before Valion can decide his next move, his thoughts are broken by the call of another, desperation in Valion’s name as it rings out over the crowd to where he turns, to where they all turn, captured by the sight of Ryul who rushes closer, red-faced and worried. “Valion, it’s Roamer. We’ve found her.”

_Roamer._

Instantly, Valion turned from the Paladins that had come to quarry some sort of meeting, his full attention given to the boy that slips past onlookers. They step back, allowing him passage. Eldar catches him, a hand on his chest a silent order to calm down, Valion by his side in the same instant. 

“Roamer, is she okay?” Worry fills Rayon’s voice, having not known that the Hyaline had used her own ship as weapon during the battle. “She’s hurt, badly. Tho’xemae and the others are with her now.”

“How bad?”  
“Bad.”

Ryul chewed his lip, his eyes apologetic, drowning in worry. “Valion, I don’t think she’s going to make it. They found her crushed, she was pinned—”  
“She’s with Tho’ now, and that’s the best place she can be. There are more, still trapped, still hurt. We need to help them.” Valion turned to the crowds as he spoke, raising his voice, once again steeled into calm despite the racing of his heart.  
He has wasted too much time already, surrounded by his family, hurting, maybe even dying and all he’s done is let the Paladins unnerve him and keep him here too long. They were a distraction he could not afford to entertain any longer. 

With his mind made up, Valion half-faced the Black Paladin. He would see reason. He would understand.  
“The battle has been long-fought, and many are still in need of help. I’m sorry, I cannot—”  
“Valion—”  
“I _can’t,”_ Lance said, his mask slipping, the worry for his family, fear of time slipping past too much that he couldn’t keep the airs forever—

“Let us help.”

Surprised, Valion turns his eyes to the Yellow, mind catching on words, watching the way he leaned forward with his entire body despite the way his feet remain rooted to the spot, by unspoken order of both Black Paladin and Solnha Leader.  
Valion held the Yellow’s gaze, scanning across the line of lips, hard-pressed eyes. The slight narrow of a brow that indicated, not quite anger. Determination maybe?

But his words weren’t something that time would allow to be discussed. And Valion, needing help, his family needing help, wanted to accept. But _no, why would they offer, what do they gain—_

“Your battle isn’t over yet. We’re here so use us.”

“Thank you. You’ve done so much for us already—”  
And with his words, Eldar made the decision to accept Voltron’s offer.

_No, I don’t want them here, I don’t want—_  
_“Valion, the time for talking comes later. We need you.”_

Valion feels her, the warmth of Zaos filling his mind, her touch welcome in the blizzard-cold of emptiness, her the light that stands against the chilling wind, his guiding light.

_Thank you._

>>\--> \-------------------- >>\--> <\--<< \-------------------- <\--<<

_Compartmentalise,_ Valion thought, the word taken and repeated in his head like a mantra, over and over.  
A mantra.  
A promise.

_A curse._

“It hurts,” a voice moans, pitched in a way that churns Valion’s gut. His gaze is pulled to the one in pain, assesses the burnt skin covering the body to the shortened limb, swathed in bloody cloth under heavy hands that held the leg firm. He needs help, he needs healing, he needs—

_Compartmentalise._

“Ryul, help him—the castle, with Coran—” Valion instructed, his pace barely hesitating the second it took to issue the order, his words bone-brittle, white in pain and ice-cold-fear that froze his heart and hurt his chest.  
The Balmeran didn’t need telling twice, didn’t hesitate himself as he ducked down, gathering the Daratrine in his arms. He’s already pushing back towards the entrance to the tunnel, past the dozens of trailing Solnha that sought help and healing and _sleep._

_Compartmentalise._

Valion hid his fear beneath another mask; stone-faced and determined, hiding the toxic stench that choked him, putrid-rotting meat-sludge-vomit that soaked the air until it reeked of fear and death. It surrounded him, ingrained deep into the Solnha that sought shelter, living, breathing fear, their tear-stained horror the tide that pushes Valion back. But he has to forge ahead. 

“Kenmare, Fellfrir, we need to clear a path for the badly injured. Everyone else to the hearth.”  
“But the infirmary—”  
“The entire base is now an infirmary, but to lessen everyone rushing about, we need to get organised. So, for now, have everyone gather in the Hearth and the larger storage units that were mined out yesterday.” 

_Yesterday?_  
Had they really been still building the base, _yesterday?_ Had it really been only then, with the Hycis and Draora side by side as they worked to expand the space to support the colony? And now, around them the colony was falling apart—

_Compartmentalise._

“Yes, Valion.” 

Fellfrir took charge, pointing out the paths for Kenmare as orders were passed out and everyone began to understand that they were to take the sick and injured to the trunk of the Home Tree.  
Then they’re gone and Valion is charging onwards.

The number that follow him beginning to dwindle as they are caught by cries of help; broken-limbed family carrying those even more broken. The wailing cries of mourning mothers stole Iefyr from his side, Leonel too. No matter how much Valion wished to run to them, to offer his help and his comfort and a smile because everything will be alright, _everything will be alright, you’ll see, I promise—_  
He couldn’t. 

_Compartmentalise._  
Focus. 

Separate and stay separate.  
He couldn’t help any of them if he let himself become overwhelmed. 

The Hearth burned in her cradle, the Glo-Sun pale and sickly as she hung, spreading warmth and light where she could, but on the Solnha tainted by blood and war it was all but futile. The understanding of the feat they had survived clung to them like tar, the thoughts that they never wished to face forcing them to face reality; gaunt faces hollow, pallor, haunted as they looked down, seeing upon the white sheets that lay nestled in their arms.  
Too still, too silent. 

Too many to count. 

Valion pushed away from the cold in his chest, pulling away from the numb that crawled up his hands, dragging nails deep across his skin, circling the still, slow-bleeding wound in his side. It could wait. There were others that needed him first. 

Valion took charge. 

Hunk joined Brea and those able heated the stoves to make a tasteless broth to extend the reach of Valion’s cultivated _Eyre_ supply. Wounds were covered with ointment, then tightly bound. Burns were cooled under the clean of snow that soaked deep into muscle to numb the pain and offer peace, no matter how small it was. The nimble and quick flittered between the injured, offering broth, cloth, or whatever else they could with whatever they had.

Valion heard the voice of Shiro and Rayon, working together to send the fatally wounded to the Castle where Coran and his healing pods waited. Even if there was no room, the containment pods that once housed Sendak would provide the able stasis to pause any deterioration of the injured. 

Nye had already taken it upon himself to rally his brothers and sister to clear the tunnels to the Trigamons turrets and those that led to the Deep Caves where Delphi and the aquatic denizens had the _Soori_ leaves growing in the deep. 

_It’s okay._  
_They would recover. They would—_

“Valion.” 

The boy turns, his heart in his throat at the sight of Jo’fir, hobbling towards him. his fur is bloody, the burns of laser yet to be treated and the obvious of battered bones in the tumbling gait that saw Jo’fir falling, Valion catching him, the two of them settling into the earth. “Jo’fir, you need to rest, you’re hurt, you need to—”

Silver pooled in his eyes. 

“Valion, where is Ygrainne?” 

The Thorx’s voice was soft, but the underlying tremble was impossibly loud, louder than the noise of those around them. Valion felt his own hands shake, the same under his fingers as Jo’fir held on with hope, stubbornly ignoring his pain. Valion knew it wasn’t just the physical blight that burned his body. 

Valion swallowed thickly, pulled away from the pleading of Jo’fir’s eyes, unnaturally colourless, the murk of ink on a dark ocean wave that threatened to drown them both. 

“You’re hurt, you need medicine, something for the burns—”  
“Valion.” 

Valion met Jo’fir’s eyes. 

“Find her for me. Please.” His voice was a whisper, but the emotion with which he spoke was deafening. 

“Please.”  
“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a notice, I am now back to working on the next chapter. Due to my current standings, I cannot give an exact to the next chapters' upload, but it is coming.  
> I thank you for your patience.
> 
> Much love, Fae xxx


	48. A Want Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro was right. The battle may have ended, but Valion’s fight wasn’t over. He has to carry himself through the destruction, has to remain strong, remain Leader, and pull his family through with him. They’d make it. _They had to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you read, just an apology that this chapter doesn't push the plot forward, nor is it what I wanted from this chapter, but with everything that's been going on, I've decided to upload, rather than focus too much on details such as.  
> Hope you enjoy.

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

“Hunk, Allura, the two of you are with me,” Shiro says, forcing himself to turn his back on the retreating Solnha.  
“Sure thing,” the Paladins agree, knowing now is not the time to question their leader’s words, or his orders, despite wanting to do nothing more than find Lance again and just—

“Pidge, you think you can help Coran? We can offer space for the Solnha, especially if their base’s integrity is affected from the Galra’s explosive attacks.”  
Pidge pulls their gaze from Lance’s fleeing form. Their eyes are glazed, brow pointed, a thousand curses on the tip of their tongue…

“Alright.” 

Instead of bowing to their want of Lance, Pidge steels themselves to following Coran back to the castle calling out to the Solnha round them that they have medicine and warm beds. Shiro is surprised at the lack of fight, knowing just how much Pidge had thrown themselves into the search. He had steeled himself for rebuttal at least, from either Pidge or Hunk or, heck, _any of them._

For so long, all they had thought, all they had hoped for was _Lance, Lance, Lance._ And now here, before them, but not and now cold and distant and—  
_No, now is not the time._ They have to help. There are still injured that need healing, hurt that need finding and brought to the castle or the mountain halls so that the Solnha can recover from this ordeal. And leading them through it…. 

Allura and Hunk have gone on ahead, leaving Shiro and Keith behind. The Solnha around them are separating too, some following the shortest Paladin, the hurt towards the mountain, and others to pillars of smoke that signal fallen craft and the possibility of injured survivors.  
They need to help too. 

“Keith. There are still Galra here,” Shiro says, turning attention to the Red. He hasn’t torn his eyes off of Lance, frozen still in combination of shock and anger, confusion and so much hurt, it is hard to look at him. But they cannot follow their own whims yet. There is still work to be done. 

“Keith, listen to me. There might be surviving Galra. I doubt our luck has held out and they were all killed when their ships were downed. Which means it isn’t just the Solnha who are out on those ice fields. I want you to—Keith? _Keith,_ listen to me!” 

Shiro grabs the boy by the shoulder, a rough shake to jolt him out of the storm clouds raging inside his head. But the action only acts as a conductor to his electrified anger, burning, icy hot in his eyes as he turned, fist ready, a snarl tearing through the air. “What the fuck was that Shiro? Why the fuck did you say—”  
“Not now,” Shiro bit, returning the anger with a commanding tone he rarely needed to use. Now there was no point to holding his punches; he needed Keith to follow orders and he needed it quickly.

“We’re still in a crisis, and your orders are to pick off enemy numbers before they can think to regroup and amount another attack. Do you understand?”  
Keith opened his mouth, anger upon his tongue, ready to fight—  
_“Do you understand?_ We’ll have time for arguing later. For now, calm yourself and organise your thoughts. You’re allowing yourself to be consumed by your emotions, and they are destroying you. So, _for now,_ your orders are to _stay away_ from the Solnha base.” 

It wasn’t that Shiro didn’t think Keith capable of providing help to the Solnha, or that he’d struggle to do so; but the boy had always relied on his emotions, and with Lance leaving it was even more apparent that his logical mind was rarely in control. Even as minute a chance as there was, there was the undeniable risk that Keith would think, or more so blame the Solnha for keeping Lance from them; be it their acceptance of him, or their need for someone strong to rally them in the Galactic war. 

The worst-case scenario would be that, whatever the reason, if there _was_ a reason, then it would be found and used. It wasn’t something Shiro wanted to consider, but he couldn’t afford to dismiss the idea completely. Especially after Keith’s explosive reaction to Uilt’xen’s words come the teams learning of Lance’s “demise.”  
And certainly not after Hunk’s confession, that saw Keith brutally murder the Galran Base Commander after torturing him. 

For Lance’s sake, he would say. And if Keith turned on the Solnha, he’d say it was for Lance’s sake too. 

Shiro couldn’t divide his attention by watching Keith while helping the Solnha. It would be better for all of them for Keith him to waste his energy on hunting Galra stragglers, and putting deliberate space between himself and Lance. 

It was all he could do for now, until they all could stop and talk.  
It was all he could do until Valion _chose_ to listen. 

Keith wasn’t happy with the orders he was given orders, but he accepted them despite his feelings. The ever-present scowl was testament enough, if the drawn bayard had failed to give any indication he was in a volatile mood. 

Uilt’xen, who had been close by and overheard the Black Paladin’s orders, joined Keith in their effort to deal out vengeance on the Galran survivors. She rallied able-bodies to her side, issuing others to be on their guard when they sought for Solnha survivors in wreckages of ships. 

The hunting party moved out, and Shiro was able to breathe a sigh of relief. The worst of his task wasn’t over yet, as he too, hurried to the tunnels.  
With each Solnha he passed, Shiro let himself assess their injuries. If the Solnha’s main medic was already overwhelmed with the numbers pouring in, then Shiro could help alleviate the pressure by directing aliens to the Castle. They had plenty of provisions as gifts and shows of thanks from other alliance forces during there— Wait. _Other alliance forces._

“Pidge? Pidge, any chance you can hail the Blade?” Shiro says into his Comms. “Maybe see if they have any spare hands, or any medicine or first aid that could help us. We’re not going to be able to do much with the six of us and one base infirmary.”  
“I can speak to Lyla directly. She’ll rally the Blade or she’ll do what she wants and come here regardless of Kolivan’s orders.” Their tone is dry, quick to the point, their words meaning more than the face-value they’re given with. 

Shiro isn’t an idiot. He knows what they mean. He can hear their hidden anger in more than just the hurry to return to silence again, as if Pidge’s words are delivered in precise cuts; shallow and benign, but painful nonetheless.  
This is only the beginning of their anger – of _all_ the team’s anger – and although justly deserved, what with the chosen words given that leave Shiro no reason to fight against the coming storm, he’s thankful that Pidge—that _all_ of them are holding off until _after_ the battlefield has been cleared. 

“I can contact the coalition too. I might be able to see if there are any outlining colonies nearby that can lend us a hand, or begin to send us more supplies. God knows we’re going to need it if the damage is as extensive as the starting casualties are showing. Even if the Solnha have their own allies, from what I can determine, they are in no stable condition to start dividing their forces to send their own out for aid, no matter how desperate they become.”  
And although their evaluation is correct by all standings, Pidge’s idea holds little weight. “We haven’t helped too many within this quadrant of space. The nearest are the _Nora,_ but they’re two space jumps from our current position.”

Shiro can’t help but scowl at the reality of the matter. “I do not think they’ll be able to lend us help anytime soon.”  
“It is worth a shot.” 

With that, Pidge signed off, leaving Shiro to return himself to the task of carrying a young Ongar into the tunnels, out of the frigid cold of the ice planet’s coming blizzard.

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

The steps the spiralled up from the Home Tree’s hearth are steep and never ending.

For the first time that he takes to them, Valion feels fear in the pit of his stomach. It is so much more palpable than that of the nervousness, abiding in echoing footsteps when he descends to the calls of delegation meetings. It is inherently different to the lingering that haunts him when his feet wander on lonely nights, when sleep remained elusive, and his Arenphine was not there to hold him close. 

Eldar remains within the distance that separates them, even now. He cannot spare a hand to hold Valion’s when they all need him, need his level mind and quick words that keep everyone focused. The tide still looms beyond the shore; he, a pillar that faces the ocean to save the Solnha from being washed away. 

Eldar isn’t the only one that remains strong in the face of utter hopelessness.  
The Draora brothers are quick to settle themselves into roles of nurture and care; the strength of their bodies and many alike carrying those that cannot stand with their own strength, taking them to the refuge of comfortable beds and warm, medicinal food.  
The smells of Hunk’s cooking fill the twisting passages, ever-present, like a shadow, no matter how far Valion climbs.  
The worry of his mind halts slow footsteps, a hand on the rail the only physical anchor his mind registers as he looks down upon the once euphoric edifice, tainted by the colours of war. A once peaceful canvas that invited all to bask in the light of the hearth fire is now nothing more than the charred remains of the inevitable. The Galra may not have won the battle for _Caldara,_ but they have left lasting scars upon the hearts of Valion’s family. His skin may remain untouched, but any hurt for the Solnha is a greater pain than he can bear. 

And yet, the Solnha have not fallen. 

Nye and his brethren have returned from the deeper tunnels. Despite blood upon their backs and sweat upon their brow, they continue to stand for the Solnha, using their strength to move debris to settle injured that still poor in.  
Uilt’xen, who was always reserved and quiet sits with younglings that cannot stow their tears. She hums and she sings in trill to the Hycis mothers that calm more than the babes at their breast with reverberating words that mean little to the ear but more to the soul. 

_We are still here._

_We are still fighting._

_We are alive._

Brea plays her part where she can, using her strength and knowledge as a chef to envelop the _Soori_ brought from the Deep Caves. She folds their silken sweet into the food that she and Hunk provide; doing their utmost to utilise the healing from the medicinal herbs, and to stretch what surviving supplies they can to all of the Solnha, and to those that still hobble in.  
Warnings of an approaching blizzard curl in like frost-bitten fingers, but the Solnha have proven their strength and they prove it still as many stand; injured and hurting alike as they join those upon the ice fields to save brothers and sisters still yet to be found. 

The Solnha have proven their strength time and time again.  
Valion thought he had, but the creeping fear still clung to him, perched upon his shoulder as he watched all those that _did,_ while he… _didn’t._

He knows it to be true, watching as others _do._ They keep themselves separated from the thoughts of _what if_ that surely should stand in the centre of the minds; sponge-like as they absorb everyone’s thoughts until they are frozen in the face of an unbeatable foe. 

Valion knows. He has faced that foe, time and time again, the chill of his hands a cold comfort abreast whispered words from within his burdened mind. Valion has faced the same foe a thousand times before; both as Solnha and Voltron, against enemy and friend-alike. 

And yet why is it, no matter his victories, he cannot rise to the challenge like all those before him. He knows they must feel it – that these are family, the irrefutable known that kin lie still beneath the snow-white sheets that are carried away. 

Why is it, that Valion cannot compartmentalise his thoughts, like they, that keep themselves focused, so that they _can_ help their family?

Valion is strong. He has proven that with just the fact that he stands where he does today; as Leader of his people and he who rallied fighting factions under one banner.  
But all his strength seems pathetic when he stands before the judgement of Voltron. After so long, they have found him, but they haven’t found him strong. He needed them to save them. Valion couldn’t do anything alone and needed Voltron to _save them._

The boy’s hand curled around carven stone, the white of his knuckles painful but unnoticed as he faces the enemy of failure. _Again._  
He cannot focus, cannot train his mind when all that surrounds him steals his thoughts. 

Yet it isn’t just Voltron that has shifted the ground beneath his feet. 

War, upon his doorstep is an insult and a warning that he must take heed, but with the reunion of Rayon, Kenmare, Uilt’xen and Leonel, hope is once more a burning candle in his chest.  
But the flame flickers in the suffocating truth that _they were alive. They were alive and he had abandoned them to the hands of the Galra…_

Another failure. Another mistake Valion must bear and burden and _ignore,_ if he is to be Valion. 

Once again, he turns from the fire burning below, and forces himself to climb the curling stairwell up to _Caldara’s_ peak. 

But thoughts are not so easy to lose as a simple turn of the cheek. He cannot hide from the echoing memories of mourning, as loud as the wailings of the mothers. Tar-soaked, blood-tainted dread that clung to his legs and his heart and his chest, _can’t breathe, can’t breathe—_

He will be forced to face it all again; when the snow settles and the chance to breathe is given. But a cruel thought is that, when Valion knows that not all of his family will breathe with him. 

He is thankful that he is kept from the wreckages that glitter upon the icefields. He didn’t think he could bear to climb through the rubble, to climb over the bodies of the dead in hopes of finding one, still alive.  
It is another selfish thought – egotistical and self-interested perhaps, – but there is only so long the boy can tread water before he drowns. 

Valion is already drowning. 

Around him, his home burns.  
Around him, his family suffers.  
Around him churns a torrent of emotion; Valion caught in the assault of turmoil that his human weaknesses bring him because he feels too strongly, too much for too many—

_Compartmentalise._

_Separate and stay separate._

_Focus on one step at a time. And again, and again until you rise above the storm._

Valion’s steps fell heavy on stone steps, his muscles heavy but broken, like rusted metal warped from the strain. His heart is heavy, but there is no choice that will allow him to choose a different path.  
Whatever it is, be it his tapering will or the simple motion of climbing familiar steps, Valion continues pushing forward. It is a constant that he holds on to; not allowing himself to give up until his final breath leaves his body, and maybe even then he would continue on. 

But, Valion is no longer climbing. 

He has stopped, on a level plateau, face turned from the warmth of the hearth-fire, towards another room just as hectic as below.  
Here, the stone carving of smooth hallowed hall melts into metal floors and old-fuelled electric lighting. It isn’t the touch of the Hycis who have carved stone from the Mountain, but instead the skeletal remains, installed years before when the Ongar took to Caldara with scientific minds and thought to monitor the planet at each turning of the season.  
Now, what is left of the base has now become the vein of the Solnha’s medical support, filled with too-many-to-count younglings that rush back and forth on light feet, their arms bundled with clean cloth, medicine, broth from below if they could spare an extra hand. They flitter between the wounded, voices low and hushed with the comfort the offer.  
Fractured, fraying words unlike the low, mellowness of mother’s song, but they too believe that all will get better. 

_You’re still here._

_You’re still fighting._

_You’re still alive._

But Valion sees their true emotions beneath cracking masks. 

Gaunt faces.  
Hollow eyes. 

Valion watches from afar, eyes caught upon the familiar of Tho’s face, masked with a look of determination, his lips twisting over and over as he reassures whoever that screams, that it’ll be okay, _it’ll be okay, you’ll be fine, I promise._  
Maybe he’s lying. Maybe his words are not true, but for all they are worth, they quieten the fear and numb the pain until there is nothing but orders to those that help him and _quickly, quickly we must do all we can, there are still more who need us._

Valion must do all he can for those that need him. There is nothing to be said about his own lacking for his family – running from the chaos of the main hall, leaving others to take his place as Leader while he creeps away like the coward he is, scared, frightened—

_No, no._

_Stop._  
_Breathe._  
_Think._

_Compartmentalise._

But it is hard to compartmentalise when all around him is the breaking of a world that he helped build with his own two hands. 

The screams of the dying echo in the metal-bone branches, their voices the wailing of banshees that warn of coming death, instilling fear in those that hurt. They scream too, when scalpel blades must cut flesh before the numbing of potent elixirs can claim their grasp on their conscious. 

The dead are even more deafening. 

The emptiness they leave behind is a barren, winter-silence, that digs deep into everyone until the fires in their hearts are cold. It is a biting chill, inescapable despite their strength that sees them standing, fighting back, pushing forward—

“Valion?”

The boy turns to one who has seen him. His pale unseeing eyes finds the light of feathered hands that reach out for his. Warm, honey-milk yellow brushes close, the light smile of another glistening beneath dried blood and tired eyes. “Thank you,” she says, breathless and joyful that stands nothing similar to the abuse that is so clearly carved across her body.  
“I know this isn’t the time, or the place,” the alien says, and maybe she’s blushing beneath her feathers, but Valion cannot see. He cannot think either, beyond the hurt that stains her down, the fear that trembles her voice, still hurt and weak from the screams that she has surely sung for the sake of the two that hug her tight, never to let go.  
Her children thank him too, in their own, voiceless gifts of beating hearts and teary eyes. They are beautiful, like their mother, whose smile brightens her bloody face, the bruises of the battle doing nothing to mask her beauty. For a moment, he saw his own mother in her eyes. 

Without effort, Valion smiles back. 

The mother is still speaking, her words quick and light as she tries to convey all she can, even in the midst of so much heartbreak. Valion hears her, but his mind is fragmented and separate. Nothing latches to his consciousness.  
He is hearing without hearing.  
Seeing, without really seeing. 

“There is no need to thank me,” he says, words louder than intended, pulling attention from those that flurry nearby. They want to offer their thanks too. They want to give praise to their Leader that has pulled them through this dark night and into a new dawn. They want—

“Have those from the peak been brought to the infirmary?”  
The entire base is an infirmary now, but the peak is undoubtedly unstable from the Galra’s attacks. The base’s healing bay is the closest large area that will allow the injured space to be healed. 

They are Valion’s focus right now, and all he will allow himself to tender his mind to. But another glance to the masses deeper in the metal cavern corridors shows him the answer to his question. They are Roamer’s crew, Fellfrir’s and Irian’s.  
They are from the ice fields and _Caldara’s_ plains. Not from her peak. 

Talking withholds them from the care of others. He already has what answers he needs from them; anything more can be asked later, when the worst of the confusion has settled and reality seeps into their conscious. 

For now, there is no time to draw his eyes from those that need him.  
Valion needs to hold-fast to his promise with Jo’fir, hold onto the promise that he gave when he took the mantle of Valion and said he would protect them. Protect them all. His family. His _home._

So, he listens to the Mother that tells him there are others who have headed to the peak. He tells her that he will join them, and that if there were any able bodies to spare from the hearth, then to send them after him. No doubt the communication room’s internal structure would have been damage, meaning their task of finding survivors was even harder. A thought he doesn’t wish to entertain, but there is no alternative.

And so, with that said, Valion leaves. He doesn’t disturb the medics and their work, forcing heavy footfalls to climb the slow incline that circles upwards still, towards the collapsed branches of the Mountain Peak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, apologies for the lack-of in this chapter. As some of you may know I haven't been well and although I'm not completely better, I'm slowly beginning to feel like me again.  
> I cannot promise a return to the weekly upload like I have been for the past few months, nor can I give an estimate to the next upload as I am witholding from any unneeded pressure on my end. 
> 
> Thank you for your understanding. I hope you continue to read and enjoy this story, as we enter the final stretch of this adventure. 
> 
> Much love, Fae xxx


	49. A Want Unreachable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Destruction. Pain. Death. There is no escaping it, no alternate route, no second road, no second _chance…_ Their battle was swift, but far more damaging than Valion had ever feared. And now he stands in the ruins, lost and alone, trying to piece his life back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance.  
> You'll understand why.

**System:** Medellin  
 **Location:** Caldara

Silence is his only companion, as he stands, alone, in the broken frame of what was once the doorway to the peak tower. Remnants of walls and ceilings barred his path, here and there, but the mindless clambering of a Human without thought saw them as nothing.   
The singular goal of the Peak, _Caldara’s_ Peak, was all that drove him forward. Up warped metal stairs, past the crumbling remains of pillars, along the path already cleared by stronger, faster Solnha. 

They were with Valion, in the room.   
But still he remained alone. 

He has been caught. Trapped.   
Eyes upon the broken cracks of collapsed roof, the fraying wires and heavy rock, weighing down his heart as he stares and stares. He cannot break the gaze that remains transfixed upon the hand before him, the reaching, stretching, _still_ arm that peeks from the rubble, with burnt fur and broken bones and blood, _blood, blood, blood—_

Echoes of the battle echo like gunshots in his head, screaming, burning, clawing their way into his thoughts, staining him with the darkness of poisonous pain; now that he stands in the wreckage that could’ve been avoided if he fought harder, _lives could’ve been saved if he had been quicker, if he had been stronger—_

“—you got her? That’s it, that’s it careful now.”

The faint murmurings pull Valion’s attention away from his spiralling self-hate towards the faint petals of blooming hope that fill the _burning-flesh-warped-metal-twisted-fate-broken_ room. Like comping up for air, Valion can finally breathe and breathe and _breathe—_

“Mind her head,” he says, his body faster than his mind as he hurries to where the Solar Pawthen carry between them a young Trigamon. Her injuries are non-life-threatening on first glance, but she’s unconscious and that’s enough for her to be taken to Tho’ rather than though the base and to the Castle that waits on the mountain’s slopes. 

One more life saved. 

Even if Ygrainne was his goal, Valion couldn’t ignore those that needed him, here. Now.   
If she was here, then he’d find her, or the others would and for now that would be enough for him. That was all his broken, breaking mind could allow him to consider as he and another – a Phiord that ignores his bleeding wound – lift rubble that traps the escape for a Trigamon few who are luckier than their sister. Their wounds are no more than grazes. They want to help, they want to—

“I know you do. But the Peak is unstable as it is. Return to the Hearth, help tend to the wounded below. Maybe take the stronger to traverse collapsed corridors. See if you can find others that have been trapped by cave-ins, but don’t put yourself in anymore danger until others can help you.” 

They listen, thankfully. 

Valion doesn’t watch them limp away, already turning back to more metal sheets, to smoke pillars and falling snow that brings the cold and a biting chill. “If a blizzard is soon to be upon us, we must secure this room or empty it, soon.”   
He lets the others make their own interpretations to his words; Valion focused upon saving and searching and _saving._ There are more trapped deeper in the room, safe for now where the ceiling hasn’t collapsed.   
But for how long does that stand true? How long until they are saved?   
How long until they succumb to wounds and leave this world because Valion wasn’t quick enough, _he could’ve saved them if he had been quicker, if he had been stronger—_

But no.   
They are not dead yet.

_Focus. Think.  
Assess and reassess and think everything through. _

One step at a time.

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

They’re angry.

Of course, they’re angry. They have every right to be.   
At themselves, at Shiro, at _him._

After months and months of fucking searching, sat in that damn chair in front of the scanners and the logs, searching for one goddamn clue that would take them from wherever the fuck they were to wherever the fuck Lance was. 

Only, Lance didn’t want to be found. 

That was clear from way back in the beginning, when he sabotaged the Pod’s inner back-up signal communications array. Even fucking clearer when they find the damn bastard traipsing about on a godforsaken backwater ice planet, playing pretend with a bunch of other dumbass aliens that think Lance is their _leader,_ that Lance is the one that saved them—and although that might be true, that doesn’t mean… that doesn’t mean… 

Pidge’s hands stopped moving, their brain shuddering to a halt, tripping over the same inconceivable thought that Lance didn’t want to be found. Lance didn’t want to come back.   
_We just wasted all those months searching…_  
For what? For whom?

For him?

_For us?_

Pidge pulled back from the computer; the transmission having already been sent. Now, before returning to the injured to lend strength and a warmth that they didn’t possess, they simply had to wait for a reply from the Blades, after they considered offering aid or not.   
With all they had done so far Pidge wasn’t holding out hope that their services would be lent, unless Pidge bartered support of information on any upcoming raids or missions. 

That would be a feat in and of itself, following the team’s lack-of-action that didn’t involve anything beyond the boundaries of searching for Lance. Incoherent thoughts play out that this was what Kolivan warned them about; why the Blade of Marmora had accepted to help, yet still persisted upon putting the search for the missing Blue Paladin as a secondary thought. Their fight against the Galra was still their utmost priority, even after Shiro, Allura, all of them, asked for help. 

Keith all but demanded it, his anger and rage nothing but a weakness in the eyes of the Blade who were quick to cast aside their comrades for the sake of victory. 

They claimed themselves no longer under Zarkon’s thumb, but still they held onto the Galra’s core belief: 

_Victory or death._

It was a coward’s retreat from the feelings of failure; an easy way out that crippled their allies in the long run. Stupid and foolhardy and enough of a summary of the Blade’s ways that Pidge knew their own efforts to reaching out for help would turn up empty handed…. 

Or perhaps not so. 

Their thoughts towards the Marmora were still held in bias.   
Tainted by an irritation that continued to accompany them, long after they had left the Blades back in Filarel’s Core. Ever since the beginning, there was little in the ways of partnership, other than empty promises that the Blade of Marmora would keep their eye out for Lance. Not actively seek him out, but spare a secondary thought like half-heartedly thinking of recycling when sorting out the trash. 

The thought curled Pidge’s hand into a fist, but the blisters from holding on too tightly of Green’s controls urge them to release their grip post-haste. They’ve been witness to plenty a speech from Shiro and Hunk alike when it came to Keith’s anger, but never had they suspected their teammate’s words would be needed for their own burning anger that coiled like sickness in their gut.   
It’s allowed of course. They deserve the freedom to have heat burn beneath their skin, the pain in their mind as thoughts collide, the influx of understandings in correlation to the confusion the surrounds and clouds and suffocates. 

The bitter taste of impatience is theirs to choke on, as much as they all choke on it, what with Shiro’s ease of abandoning he who didn’t need more turned cheeks and averted eyes. 

Lance, Valion, whoever he wanted to be, didn’t change who he was, who they were together, what they did and what they needed to apologise for. But Shiro had disregarded their mistakes, thinking he chose the high ground like Lan— like _Valion_ wanted, and in doing so had they not also thrown away their only chance to apologise?   
To _truly_ apologise for the wrongs they have done, in order for them all to heal from the hurt that has led them to this moment. Thrown away their only chance to change the path that continues on before them; fragmented, cracked, like desert stone that has only known sun and heat, far from any oasis and possibility of reconciliation with water and the gift of thriving life. 

But how can they begin to rebuild when old fires still burn, threatening to devour what is lain down in ode to closing the gap once more? 

How can they be anything more than strangers if Valion will not show them his true face?

Pidge’s thoughts are broken by the trill of an incoming message. They palm their misted eyes quickly, turning back to the holo-display. The message is accepted and suddenly a vid-feed of Lyla takes up the bulk of their screen. 

“Hey Green, long time no speak,” Lyla begins, her smile clear in her voice. But upon seeing the pain in the younger’s eyes, her words quickly become concerned. “What? What is it?”   
“Nothing, nothing,” Pidge says quickly, waving a hand in front of their face as if that would be enough to dispel Lyla’s concern. “We found the pirates on a planet called _Caldara_ in the _Medellin_ system. We’ve just fought off the Galra and—”  
“Are you hurt? Are you all okay?” Lyla asks, her worry interrupting Pidge while hands and feet busy themselves off screen. Other voices quarrel off screen, but a whistling from the half silences them in an instant, turning back to Pidge, still ready with a rush of worry.

“How many are there? Is anyone injured? You’re not in your lion, _why are you not in your lion—?_ Do you need help? What do you need, just say and I’ll get everyone—”  
“Lyla, Lyla, calm down, we’re not fighting anymore. We’re fine… Ish… Okay, not so much,” Pidge sighed, brain scrambling from their own rushed thoughts and the onslaught of sudden questions that didn’t leave much room in terms of answering. 

“Voltron is fine in terms of injuries. We arrived late to the battle but it was enough that we helped the Solnha win. Still, the Galra have done considerable damage, and the pirates are stretched for supplies as it is. We’re only six. I was hoping that you or anyone might have some supplies—”  
“Whatever you need, it’s yours,” Lyla says, determination dripping from her voice. “You’re allies, so no one has the right to argue against my decision. I’ll order ships to come to you immediately. Any ideas of what you need? Anything specific?”

Pidge can’t help but sigh in relief. Lyla maybe erratic, boisterous and several litres of fizzy drink compressed into a tic-tac, but somehow, the Galran girl has a knack for calming them down. She’s shown her prowess off before; upon _Genwar_ mid-battle and even now, when they’re head is too clouded with thoughts of Valion or Lance or revenge against the fucker that put them all though the heartache of searching for him—

“Medicine? Food, blankets maybe? The castle has healing properties and the Solnha have a base, but we’re trying to heal the entirety of the populace with limited supplies. Most of those healing others are hurt themselves, and while it’s working now, there’s no telling how long they can go on before keeling over themselves.”

Lyla hums in agreeance, making necessary arrangements on her end while Pidge continues. “My scans indicate there are no Galra within the vicinity, but if you’ve got a spare patrol that can sweep the nearest star systems, it would calm us all down and we can put our entire focus on helping the Solnha heal before the storm hits—  
“Storm?”   
“Snowstorm,” Pidge amends. _“Caldara_ is an ice planet, and the recent environmental backlash from the battle has shifted the atmosphere for a cold front to hit, come late afternoon. With most of the ice fields still needing to be scoured for survivors, I’m worried that we may have to sacrifice those we can’t save, before the Solnha succumb to the weather.” 

Lyla nods again, before excusing herself for a hasty conference with off-base blades that were closer to Caldara than Lyla’s four varga flight trip.   
Pidge nodded their understanding, slumping back in their chair from the pain blooming across their forehead and the tiredness that dragged at dead-weight limbs. 

It was logical to turn attention to the Solnha first as they faced the worst of the pain in broken bodies and broken hearts, what with the death count slowly rising. So far Pidge was separate from it all.   
It couldn’t go on, that was for certain, but for now they could at least allow calm to surround them – if such a thing were possible now that all they could think was what would come after the blizzard. 

Would Lance finally agree to speak to them? Or were they destined to only be strangers across the table in diplomatic meetings. Never again brother and sister, side by side at the dinner table, sharing jabs at Keith’s bed hair, playing cupid for Hunk and Shay when they first feasted upon the Balmera…   
Such thoughts were painful, if not humiliating to consider; having been left with their only options at the hands of their own mistakes, and an inability to see the truth when it had been but at the end of their nose all along:  
That the Trigamon and the Pirates and the Solnha were all one and the same—

“—Pidge? You listening?”

Lyla was back on the display. 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah I’m here, sorry, sorry.” But Lyla doesn’t buy it. She fixes Pidge with a seemingly knowing look, arms crossed while her feet take control of steering— _wait,_ steering? Does that mean she’s coming here too—actually wait, yeah that makes sense, it is Lyla after all. Considering she strolled uninvited onto their ship for the mission to _Genwar,_ then tagged around for the few days after, it’s pretty sound reasoning to understand that Lyla does what she wants, and is allowed to continue doing as such.   
As long as there are favourable results afterwards. 

“Are you coming here?” Pidge asks, hoping diverting will allow enough time to think of an excuse as to why their brain was disengaged. But Lyla just sees through that too. “Yes, I am. Because Voltron has called for aid, and a certain Green Paladin isn’t acting like their superior selves, so I’m being a concerned bystander putting my nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

Pidge shifts their gaze, breathes a sigh, and slumps lower into their chair. There’s no reason to hide it really, nor any reason to pretend that they aren’t negatively affected by the truth. 

“We found Lance.” 

The half Galra shifted in her seat, all amusement gone. “Oh Pidge, I’m sorry. I don’t know what do say.” Which, was a little confusing of a response, if Pidge was being honest.   
They raised their head, reading sympathy in the others’ forward pose, having heard the pain but not understanding that—

“Ah no, it’s not— I mean, he’s not dead,” Pidge explains, pulling their own legs up around themselves. 

“It’s just, he’s not… _Lance…_ either. 

To their right, on Shiro’s chair is Lance’s old jacket that they had claimed, wearing day in and day out ever since it had been found. Whereas before it had been a comfort to them in their trying times, now the jacket was just a reminder that Lance was no longer with them, unlikely to return to them, having become Valion, leader of the Solnha. 

Pidge tells their worries to the Blade. It’s easier, with Lyla as a third party, completely separate from the inevitable Voltron versus Solnha when it came as a battleground for the memory of Lance or the new King of _Caldara._

And although Lyla listened with intent, there was little she could offer in the way of comfort. Words were superficial at best; not knowing the young fighter enough to know what could be said and what shouldn’t. 

So, Lyla held her tongue and promised she would hasten herself and the blades.   
Then Pidge and the team would have the freedom to find Lance and take a step to make amends.

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

_Caldara_ has set snow upon the battlefield, in hopes to hide the burning of skeletal ships and too many dead to be buried in starlight.  
She does not bring the storm lightly; the first snowflakes a gift and a warning all at once; they should not tire themselves with the weight of the dead on their backs. They will know the dead with the emptiness they leave behind, and although such a cruel mistress is she that she steals from them last goodbyes, it is the cold of her exhale that numbs and warms and caresses each of those pained into their painless, endless slumber. It is their time to leave this world, and she, their All-Mother, will wrap them in her soft embrace before sending them on their way.

She has taken Ygrainne, wrapped her up in pale fur as soft as morning mist, as perfect as a cloudless summer sky. If there is any comfort to her passing, it is that it was painless; her mind taken by darkness when the explosion knocked her backwards, the smoke of the burning fires stealing her breath before she ever knew she was dying. 

Many of them passed that way; very few succumbing to shock from burns when fire licked their body and tasted pain and agony.   
It was a cold comfort, if it was any comfort at all. Maybe not now, but someday, when they weathered the storms, and the Battle was just another story to sing to young ones as they drifted to sleep, some distant night from this coming one. 

Valion wishes he was there, faraway from now. Instead, he is here, holding one he loves in his arms, holding on as she stares upwards, to the black curling roof, the fragmented gaps that let feathering light of cold snow settle upon her fur; messy and undoubtedly tangled. But that’s okay. She doesn’t mind.   
She isn’t really thinking about anything. Not the quiet of the room, the gentle ebb and flow of pain that pierces their stomach, their chest, stealing her breath for a moment and another and another, until _maybe this time will be the last time I breathe._

Because Or’ is dying. 

She knows this, but somewhere between the pain of loneliness in the never-ending darkness, to the tears shed from Valion, from the others that had flittered close, only to fade to nothing as time continued. Stretching on. Cruel, one might think, but Or’ will not hope for more than simply time. Her body is broken. Her mind is barely holding on, just for that moment longer, so allow Valion his apologies that are not needed.   
But if they are the words that need to be spoken, then Or’ will listen to their end. 

She will love him, until her end. 

The world shifts around her, and for a moment her lungs do not work. She cannot breathe, and although Or’ thought she had accepted her death, the suddenness of its coming frightens her, enough that tears wet her eyes and wet her fur. The sight of silver tracks are enough for Valion to apologise, again and again, but this time, the young kit just smiles. She chokes a laugh, ignoring blooded lips to remind him, “it’s okay Valion. I’ll be okay.” 

But her words are hollow and shudder in her throat; the truth of her self, rising in the growing quiet. 

She tries again. 

“It doesn’t hurt. I’m not in p-pain… it’ll all be al-alright. I’ll be okay—”  
She’s lying, of course, because it hurts. It hurts _so much,_ and she wants to be strong, like Valion always is, in the face of imminent death, in the face of undefeatable foes that he bests regardless. Because he is strong and she wants to be strong and…

“I’ll be fine—”

_I’m scared._

“It’s okay—”

_It hurts._

“It doesn’t hurt—” 

_I’m scared._

Valion smiled the smallest of smiles, his own cheeks streak with tears, just like her own, flickering between precious silver and the slowing blood that continues to dress her fur, her clothes a betraying crimson. 

The spire of twisted metal is lodged in her spine, through her stomach, through her chest. He is thankful she cannot feel what is no longer there, after the walls collapsed and her lower body has been torn from her. 

But still she is pained, he knows, beyond tears and choking apologies that barely make themselves heard in the noise of the battlefield; their enemy, no longer the Galra, but time itself.   
Even Or’ battles time. But no, she is riding with it, as she waits for _Caldara’s_ embrace and eternal sleep between the stars. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” she lies, because Valion can hear the pain behind the mask that means more to her than endless tears and a shuddering breath the echoes in the growing quiet. “I know,” he whispers back, trying to smile. 

For her sake.   
For his sake.

“I know, I know, you’re so brave,” he says, holding her tighter without moving her body at all. He wants to rock her, to cradle her in his arms, to pull her close to his chest and nuzzle into her fur as time comes and goes for the young Kit who has grown so close to his heart, he couldn’t tell apart the time from when he knew her and when he didn’t. 

“So brave, so strong,” he whispers, over and over, letting his words carry like gentle winds. He prays for an eternity with Or’ and no more all at once. He doesn’t want her hurting more than this, but the freedom of a blade is a burden the boy selfishly refuses, even if Or’ deserves to die, swift and painless.   
But he can’t.   
Not even for her sake. 

And it pains him. 

“Lance?” 

Because it is Lance, her brother, who helped her without her asking, who comforted her when she hurt, who made her smile and laugh and let her be a child once again. Him who holds her when her night terrors are too much, even when he fends off his own, or protected by Eldar who will watch from the doorway while she pretends to sleep, and he snores and curls tighter around her soft fur. 

“Yeah Or’?”  
 _“Thank you.”_

Her voice is quiet, quieter than it’s been before, weak almost—“What no, _no_ Or’, not yet,” Valion begs, but it’s selfish, _she’s hurting,_ he needs to let go. 

Their tears flow freely, their blood flows freely, but their hearts are heavy and fear-pain-cold-echoing-sadness clings to the pair of them. Or’s hand curls tighter around Valion’s fingers, her lies repeated as her light flickers. 

“It’s… okay… I’ll be… fine… doesn’t… hurt.” 

The same soft smile, marred and bloodied, she’s crying, he’s crying, _“I’m sorry Or’, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”_  
“I—fine,” she says, but she’s struggling, caught between the pain of breathing and the pain of crying, because… because… 

_I’m scared._

_I’m scared._

“I’m scared Lance.” 

Her words are infinitely small, but he can hear them as loud as the echoing thunder that rumbles in the distance. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and it’s his turn to lie. “It’s okay, it will all be okay, I promise.” He can’t promise such a thing, but he does for her sake. For she is but a child that faces death; an end to a life cut short too soon. 

“I’m scared Lance—”  
“It’s okay Or’, you don’t need to be—”  
“I’m scared,” she cries, her words hitching, breath rattling as blood pours in rivulets from the corners of her mouth. Her lungs are filling, he knows this, but still he cannot save her from her fear _because he’s too selfish to raise the knife—_

“I’m…. I’m… cold….”

Silver eyes meet dusted copper. 

_“…sorry…”_

And silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for BlueberryLimoncello for Beta-ing for me.


	50. A Want Unnamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all… it shouldn’t be this way… _it shouldn’t._ It should be different. They won the battle. Against the Galra. _Didn’t they?_  
>  So why does Lance feel he is losing everything around him, his world crumbling quicker than he can hold on to it.

**System:** Medellin  
**Location:** Caldara

When the Blades arrive, the storm is almost upon them. Many survivors have already been rescued. 

It was slow going, trekking through snow paths and snow mounds, some carried upon the back of Wraiths and Solnha alike. But that steady flurry of falling snow was another battle none had yet to gather their will to fight; one that stole their sight and stole their strength, such as the cold steals warmth from one’s body.  
Those that could not return to the base under their own strength have temporarily taken residence in a fallen Galra cruisers; flushed of enemy soldiers, courtesy of Keith and Uilt’xen. 

They, and the few that joined them, were called to the smoking ship by the sound of waking soldiers. Enemies that survived the initial fall were a threat they would not permit, and so the hunt began, until all that remained on the ship was Solnha and Red Paladin. They bring order where they can, sending a message for aid, before they’re trapped by the snowstorm and the numbers of survivors are dropped by the cold. 

It is the Blades who respond. 

They take point in the slow, yet steady process of ferrying survivors back to the base, as per Shiro’s orders. He would rather everyone back to the mountain than waiting out the storm. That way, he could take away some of the unknowing, whether family survived or fell, healing hearts and not just bleeding wounds.  
Keith also had the foresight to raid the Galra’s supplies, sending not only victims, but the means to heal them further. Food pills and fresh water, blankets and nutrient vials. Clean medical equipment and non-essentials that would be as much a gift as a good night’s sleep.  
All of it is a blessing; not just for those that have fought, but for those that are still fighting.  
His team is undoubtedly feeling the strain of tending to the wounded, yet still they continue to work, tirelessly saving who they can by any means possible. 

They’ve all been ploughing on, for hours and hours, and will all continue to do as such until they themselves collapse, while the winds howl beyond twisting tunnels. 

The storm is upon them, but the battlefield only holds residence to the Galra and the dead. 

Shiro stands ready to greet the last few of survivors that crawl up from the landing pad. He isn’t alone; others gather with him, ready to accept the last few before leading them deeper into the base. Oddly, Shiro feels comfortable with them, a sense of familiarity his companion, even if Kenmare stands to be the only familiar face in their small group.  
Beside him are the familiar shapes of Draora, many of whom offer praise or blessings to their returned brother. There are creatures that are more plant than person, small creatures that manoeuvre the tunnels in robot-suits, and others that resemble the caves walls, that if they stopped moving for a moment, Shiro was sure he’d forget they even existed in the first place.  
But most noticeable of all is an alien like no other; nearly twenty feet tall, the horns atop their head close to scraping the curving ceiling of the hollowed-out cavern. Even without having been introduced, Shiro already knows this giant to be Foci; one of many who were aboard the ship that saved Lance all those months ago. They are someone the distant boy considers a close friend, if Rayon and Kenmare’s stories still ring true. 

The Paladin can’t quell his hopes to speak to them; they being much closer and strangely, far more approachable than their Leader. But like Shiro, and all the Solnha that are still standing, their energy is to be spent helping and healing. Personal agendas were secondary at best, and if Shiro ever wanted a chance to commune with Lance—ah, uh, _Valion_ —then he needed to play the game. 

Politics were a game of course, and the Solnha were no different to all those that came before. La— _Valion,_ maybe a dark horse one never before been stumbled upon, but ultimately, he was just another King, another Sovereign, anther Commander in charge that wanted what was best for his people. 

It was simple if Shiro allowed himself to think as such. It was the truth stood that he just needed to remember. 

“That seems to be the last of them,” says the nearest that stands to Shiro’s right; a Phiord with skin of grey, and plum leaves that were as much a mane as they were a coat. They aren’t someone that Shiro has heard through the Solnha’s stories, so he doesn’t think this alien knows much of Lance, yet that stands to reason, with the sheer number of the boy’s people. He couldn’t know all of them personally. 

“Has Uilt’xen returned?” Kenmare asks, turning back from where he had started to head back to the hearth. The Phiord’s leaves ruffle. “I saw her earlier, with Voltron’s allies.” He turns back to Shiro. “The small Red one and the Altean were with her, but they remained by the fireside.”  
Shiro can’t help the way his stomach turns slightly. It wasn’t that he had to watch Keith and keep and eye on him, but something about the feeling Keith had snuck under his nose to confront Lance—

“We should return to the hearth,” Shiro says before either alien could question the pallor behind his visor. “There are sure to be more than can benefit from out help.” 

The Paladin doesn’t wait for a reply. He’s already marching a quick-step back up the tunnel, towards the Home Tree’s trunk.  
Upon arrival, it is clear that Keith is no where in sight. Neither is Allura, and although that suggests the Princess is keeping an eye on their more-unpredictable teammates, Shiro can’t curb the worry, nor the guilt that surges from such emotions. 

Everything seems turned upside down. Not just with the warfare that lingers, but everyone’s confusion surrounding Lance and Valion and his reactions to being reunited.  
Shiro had long since given up ever finding him again. Or at least he thought he had.  
Because when Rayon had grown with his anger and beat them with the truth, Shiro realised then that he hadn’t completely accepted Lance’s death. 

But then he did. 

And then they found Lance. 

Without speaking to him, Shiro can’t even begin to imagine whatever the boy must be feeling; _pain, confusion, hate, fear, regret._ To be reunited, after so long, face to face with those that abandoned him…. 

But it was clear, in the instant when the boy turned, colourless compared to the prism of joy he was when reunited with the Solnha four.  
He turned, shed the light of his happiness, facing Voltron with an impenetrable guard, his words efficient, mechanical in a way that Shiro realised it was all forced upon him and he wanted to run, wanted anything but to be there, in their gaze, within their reach. 

All this time, they searched for him. 

But he was running.  
Running, until he thought he had escaped them, because he needed to escape from them, needed to be something more than the failure he thought he was when he was Blue Paladin.  
That’s why he gave up his mantle so quickly. Maybe that’s why he drove the knife between them, let himself take Keith’s sword, let himself be hurt by their words, let himself be less without fighting back, because… he had already accepted it. 

_He had already given up._

And as Shiro stands there, he begins to realise that words won’t be enough. Words and apologies are nothing more than a guise to Valion, who has no reason to trust what Voltron says to him. They need to _show_ that they mean what they say. They need to _show_ him that he’s more important than these self-carved silhouettes that are nothing in resemblance to the truth.  
They might’ve been what he had seen, when he was Lance. 

But months have passed and Valion has already proved he is more. He’s grown. He’s stronger, he’s wiser.  
And it is this that gives Shiro confidence Voltron will be given the chance to fix their mistakes.

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

It has been the better half a day since the battle, and finally Allura feels like she’s slowing down.  
It’s not that she’s tired, which is true already, but instead it is because most of the work is done. Many of the injured that couldn’t return to their sectors have been taken to a hall off one of the previously collapsed branches. Rayon and his brethren have been working hard to clear it, and to clear any appropriate spaces for families to heal together until they can return to their homes.  
Hunk and those that worked the main kitchen have nearly exhausted the medical supplies, and are waiting for Pidge and Lyla to return from a supply run, and Shiro has gone to meet the last of those that needed bringing in from outside.

And then, there he is, making his way over to her with an all-too-familiar hard-pressed smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. He is as tired as she is, perhaps more so from the weight of their future bearing on his conscious, now that they’re here and _he’s_ here. 

Finally, the time has come to talk. But this involves the whole team, regardless of their approach, so they need to wait for Pidge and Hunk—

“Allura, have you seen Keith?” 

The princess is a little surprised, having expected Shiro to begin arranging some sort of meeting with the Solnha, so to be asked of Keith who Shiro had been with… 

“No. Sorry Shiro. Last I saw him was when…” she trails off, memory flashing with dark eyes that regarded her in hatred. Pain pillowed in her chest, yet she fought down any unsightly urges, instead clearing her throat and repeating, “no, I haven’t seen him.”  
To which the Human frowns. “But I was told you were with him, early, before the fire.”  
“No?” 

It is a question and an answer all in one, but neither are what Shiro hoped to hear. He doesn’t look worried, as much as he does on edge, but there is something that pales his skin and won’t let him stand still as is familiar with the Soldier. 

Again, Allura shakes her head, a hand catching Shiro’s to calm him. “I’ve been with the others in the antechamber, helping wrap burns. I’ve only just returned to see if I can salvage more bandages, or clean cloth.” There were few who still needed her help, and Allura hadn’t want to use up the remainder of their supplies in case their calculations were wrong and there were still wounded somewhere. Trapped. In need. 

Shiro doesn’t seem to hear her. He’s now mumbling to himself, eyes flickering to the fire and every flash of red he can see, but no Keith in sight. “Are you sure they said I was with him?” Allura asks. She knows the pressure of everything can unnerve even the hard-strong of hearts. She has fallen prey to her emotions before. Undoubtedly, there is a limit for this man beside her, and she fears he is close to reaching it. 

“They said they saw Keith with you by the fire—No, they said ‘Altean.’ I assumed it was you but—”  
“It could be Coran. I did see him come inside earlier, but I was busy, I didn’t have a chance—”  
“No, it’s fine Allura. I just hope he’s still with Keith before the idiot runs his mouth and does something stupid. I don’t want to worry about him like this, but with the ways he’s been behaving recently, I feel it’s inevitable.” 

Allura understands what he means. Not just how he reacted to the news of Lance’s supposed death, but his own methods when they were still looking, and how desperate Keith came, far more than she when facing the Galra: her sworn enemy. 

“Coran is with Keith. There is no chance of him doing anything while they’re together, but if it will ease your mind, we shall search for them. Hunk as well.”  
She takes his arm, the slightest tug spurring him into moving his feet after her. 

“And then, we can begin discussing what comes after Pidge has returned, and the Solnha are ready to speak with us, be it a formal meeting, or a proper reunion with Lance.”

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

_Empty,_ he thinks, as if it’s a conscious thought and not his entire being.

He doesn’t feel real. But surely, he must be. If not, the pain that plagues him wouldn’t exist.  
As he shouldn’t. 

Not after all he had done. 

Dead arms hold tight her small, limp body, growing colder and colder still not matter how tightly he clutches her to his chest, hoping to give her his warmth, give her his life, give her just a little more time…  
Time is something he has too much of, and not enough all at once. Incoherent thoughts speak beyond the veil, as if they have the right to summon him to their sides and he can sleep his existence away. It is a nice thought, a peaceful thought.  
But is isn’t something he deserves, and so he turns from their calling, with a young kit in his arms and continues his path that leads nowhere and somewhere. 

Every step is painful. Every step is harder than the last.  
His legs are lead but his bones are glass. They shake untested, the threat of their fractures a taunt that follows him down carven stone and hollow halls that saw happier times. Now, no more, as they cling with the scent of terror and death and everything that haunts children’s dreams.  
Valion looks upon Or’s face, hoping her dreams are nothing like his reality. He hopes her dreams are warm and soft and as peaceful as the morning tide. Her hopes her beyond will never hurt her, never harm her, never burden her with regrets.  
After all she’s done, in her twelve years of life, Or’ deserves more than contentment in the after. 

Valion holds her tighter, whispers another unheard apology, and continues his descent. 

Every breath is painful. Every breath is harder than the last.  
He is empty, his chest ice, the cold devouring him; a serpent writhing deep inside, coiling around his organs, constricting and squeezing until he can barely breathe….  
And still, he breathes and still he lives, even if he doesn’t deserve it. 

The Peak remained behind him, still smoking, still broken, as much of a grave as the ice fields beyond the mountain halls.  
This war has already stolen so much, but the truth remains that it is far from over. This battle may be over for now, won, by the skin of their teeth, if such a win can be counted when the storm screams as loud as the dead while they wait. Because this, the waiting, is just the breath between the waves, the turning of the tide before the Galra regroup and return to smite the rebels that stand against them. 

Because of Valion. 

Because Valion fell for his own lies; that the Galra could be defeated. But now, those lies can be seen for what they are. Now, after the truth has reared its head, everyone can see Valion for what he is worth, as he descends deeper into the tangled branches of a place he called Home.  
Broken, because he wasn’t strong enough to protect it.  
Quiet, because he wasn’t strong enough to protect his family, or his people that lived here. 

Those that still live have learnt that every promise he ever made, every oath sworn beyond raised glass and cheery voice, is nothing but an empty lie that served to stoke the fires of a confidence he never possessed. They would know by know that Valion was nothing but a name, and Human that held it was nothing but a mistake that stumbled into their lives, chased by a curse that he had run away from, all those months ago. 

Anadón may have been a figment of his imagination, but he wasn’t wrong.  
One day, they’d all wake to the realisation that Lance was nothing but a burden, and they’d cast him out just as Voltron had. 

That day seemed closer than it ever had before.

>>—> \-------------------- >>—> <—<< \-------------------- <—<<

As Coran climbs the circling staircase, he cannot help but marvel at the architecture of the Solnha’s Home Tree. Such marvellous, such stupendous work has been etched into the rock face itself, the skill undoubtedly employed to trace Glo Fire into the walls and into a self-supporting light source for the main chambers and those that faced it.  
Where crass effort could be dealt to achieve pathways, instead the Solnha has taken it upon themselves, not to dig out trails from one cave to another, but to delicately mould rock into wonderous arts of fine-dust stairs, columns of humming stone that lift cavernous ceilings high above, the ceilings themselves glittering with diamond and white crystals that could be mistaken for the stars themselves.

Yet the fingers of war have stretched far, and Coran cannot over look the cracks in the walls, the blood that trails up the winding stairs, where many of the injured have been carried in hopes of healing.  
The stone still breaths with life, but it is harrowed and panicked, as if _Caldara_ herself continues to worry for her children. She does what she can, holding back the bite of the snowstorm, lending the tree warmth from magma in her core, hoping it is enough, hoping it is—

“Coran.” 

The man lifts his head from where he had been staring at the trailing crimson, to the sight of firey eyes. Keith hasn’t let the work of helping tire him, conserving his energy for another fight, as if he expects the future talks to be, not a peaceful meeting, but a conflict that expects blade and bite all at once.  
Coran had found him when he could offer not more help on the Castle, and knowing the young boy’s desperation for another, so close, still alive, _so close_ —Well Coran wouldn’t forgive himself if irrationality did damage that could be curbed with his own watchful eyes.  
And luckily enough for him, Keith accepted the presence of the Altean to accompany him as they continued to circle the Home Tree’s Trunk, following the ghosting trail they had been following for months. 

So together, the Red Paladin and the Altean Doctor climb, lost in the tangled branches, but neither worried that they are at fault as they continue, following the flurry of others that has calmed considerable. Coran knows Keith is desperate to find Lance. His own emotion isn’t as fluid, but he won’t deny that his own want to find the boy is anything less. He wants to find Lance, to hold him tight and apologise for every wrong that has befallen them, at the man’s own failures and the other’s.  
It isn’t for their sakes, but for the need that Lance knows he was loved, _is_ loved, _has always been loved and we’re so sorry that you ever had the chance to believe differently…._

Coran’s thoughts filter when his eyes fall upon the very boy he had been searching for. Beside him, Keith freezes, but it’s not that same shock that filled them all when the first saw him. This time, it’s colder, their bodies hollow as the wind blows through them and beyond; staring, because that is all they can stand to do with the sigh of Lance. Bloody and broken. 

He is like them, though. Frozen, in place and time, his eyes fixed upon Uilt’xen, and her pale skin, the tiredness of her frames that has pushed for so long, can push no longer and begins to crumble as she bears herself to another. 

_“Uilt’xen?”_

He himself doesn’t believe his own eyes, the patterns of his chest rivulets of murky brown, twisting into marvellous shades of orange and reds, as bright and beautiful as the coming dawn. 

“Hey Tho’,” Uilt’xen says with a grin, but the inflection of her words leaves too much fear that couldn’t hide behind her bravura. She never spoke of her own family, only of Valion and a few from her crew, leaving Coran unable to tell who this Daratrine is to her, or why she should fear him. But fear she does, as silence breeds in the metal hall, and no one moves. 

He is the first to take a step. 

Another and another, until he gathers her in his arms and throws their foreheads together in brutish comfort. Their skulls clack, but they smile and laugh. “Durm save me, you wretched _dahast.”_

And for a second time, they see Uilt’xen cry; apologies given to this man that cares for her and thought her dead. 

Coran looks over to Lance, wishing that their reunion has played just the same. But their distance was not to the fault of the Galra’s interference, but their own misspoken words and hurtful slurs that cut more than the bonds between them.  
Apologies and words wouldn’t be enough, that was clear, but they could be the first step. 

And as Coran stands there, staring at Lance, staring at a boy who he cares for like a son, he doesn’t understand his own hesitation. It is unneeded and unwanted. 

So, the man casts it aside, and takes the first step. 

Lance has grown, that much is true, but Coran cannot see a man where the boy stands. His body remains hunched, his arms wrapped around a young child to his chest that drags at him. But tight-gripped hands and the sheer desperations that keeps him carrying them are the answer to any question that could ever be thought to ask, as Coran takes one step after another to reach Lance’s side.  
It is only when he places his hand on the boy’s shoulder does Lance raise his head, tear-stained eyes, dried blood upon his brow, smoke and sweat and tears shown to a familiar face that cannot present a smile, even if it was to comfort him. 

Coran’s chest tightens painfully, his throat thick with unspent tears. “Lance—”  
“They’re dead,” he breathes, his voice barely breaking the quiet. “So many, _so many Coran,_ I couldn’t save them—”  
“You have, Lance, there are many still alive thanks to you,” the older says immediately, one arm given to Lance when he rocks, knees buckling, they’re on the floor before Coran can shift the weight of the child into his own arms. Slowly, Lance relinquishes his grip, and the girl—oh god, this girl, she’s… _she’s…._

Coran cannot help but turn away at the sight of the Kit’s destroyed body. She must’ve died in pain, and that in itself is enough to make both Paladin and Doctor sick. But to Lance, this isn’t just another victim. To Lance, she was one of his people. 

To Lance, she is someone he couldn’t protect. 

“S-someone,” the Altean begins, swallowing to hide the pain in his voice. “Someone help me, help her, take… her.”  
Coran’s orders falter; emotion prickling his eyes. His tone bleeds with more than authority, but it is enough that a stranger, with kind arms and a gentle touch reaches down and takes the child from their hold. 

Lance doesn’t see. He is moonblind, his body rocking in a sickening way. He wears her blood, and the blood of others; the stain upon his armour unsightly and sickening as much as the trembling that take possession of his cold and clammy hands.  
Coran steadies him with two arms and a soft tone that he hopes helps more than words. He doesn’t think the boy can even understand him. But still, he speaks: “Listen to me Lance. You’ve done so much, you have fought so hard, we’re all so proud.”

He wipes the blood and dirt from above Lance’s right eye. A wet cloth is given by another, and it helps considerably as Coran washes away what he can, revealing new wounds and old scars, each one with their own story, each one lighting the candle for a thousand questions. 

“And the Solnha, they’re all so thankful for what you’ve done for them, all that you’ve—”  
“They’re all dead,” the boy says again. His voice is hollow; the presence of his being is but a ghost beneath the surface of the tide, like ink in water, fading and fading fast— “Not all of them,” Coran says. He speaks as if he is begging, and maybe that is so. Because here before him is a boy that has seen more than his fair share of war, and he’s had to face it without them, still fighting without them, always fighting without them— 

“Coran?” 

“Yes, my boy, it’s me,” Coran says, and he’s smiling. Lance isn’t. He still stares, his eyes pale and faded, his gaze drifting across Coran’s face with the faintest crease of his brow as if he doesn’t believe he is seeing what he is really seeing—

“Why are you here?” 

It is an accusation, even if the boy doesn’t bare the strength to pour anger into his words. He remains breathless and weak, his body growing weaker by the second, but Coran holds onto the hope that Lance hears him. “We were searching, my boy, ever since you disappeared.” Shame pulls his eyes down, eyes upon the stain of murky wine that blooms near his chest, seeping into the midnight blue of tight-weave armour—  
“We know that they poisoned you, that you were hurting—” the stain bigger than before, _but no that can’t be so—_ “and we did nothing, I’m sorry—” _it can’t be so, it isn’t him that is hurt,_ is it?” “—I’m—I’m… Lance, are you… are you bleeding—?”

“Arenphine?” 

Coran cannot help but turn to the fear that rings behind him, eyes catching upon a familiar alien that had been by the boy’s side before. He rushes to him now, and Coran recedes to allow the four-armed alien gather Lance close to him. “Arenphine, what is the matter, what is wrong?” he asks, his fear reminiscent of Uilt’xen’s own when she faced her kin.  
“He’s hurt,” Coran says, staring at the stain that isn’t what he first believed, a hand already reaching out, pressed, pressed harder when Lance bites out pain at the pressure of the Doctor’s fingers on a hidden wound. “Lance you idiot, why didn’t you say— he’s bleeding, _he’s bleeding,”_ he says, raising his voice to the healers that are nearby. Beneath fingers the tight-weave gives away, only an inch, but it is the scar of a sword blade that has pierced more than armour. 

The sapphire alien stands quickly, a third hand taking the place of Coran’s, his fur steeped in Lance’s blood already, but the boy himself doesn’t seem to notice; “El, Eldar I couldn’t—Jo’fir, I need to tell him—”  
“You’re not going anywhere. You are hurt and you told no one Lance. _What were you thinking?”_ Eldar’s scolding brings a smile to the boy’s lips, and despite his pallor, it is real. “Had to… for Jo… for Ygrainne…. For Or’.”  
“Or’.” 

“She’s dead, El. I-I couldn’t… save her…” 

Coran listens as he joins the healers near an empty cot. The Daratrine that hugged Uilt’xen is by his side, the two of them moving in coordinated movements to pass bandages and medicine, similar enough to Eyre, but in a way Coran doesn’t recognise. He asks no questions – there is no need for them – and focuses on the sealing scalpel that will cauterize the worst of the wound. 

He doesn’t see the other Paladins beyond the doorway, watching on in desolate silence.

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure you’ve subscribed for upload notifications – because you know me and my shitty ability to keep to an upload schedule. I’m aiming for a once a month (possibly week if you’re lucky and my life doesn’t encroach on my writing time) but there are no promises (sorry again).  
> Don’t forget that the Glossary is the next work and the third in the series is the starting comic. Check it out if you fancy! And thanks for reading x
> 
> Also, if you enjoyed this and fancied checking out my other stuff, there are more Klance fics, ultimate Langst fics, a little Shance and then a treasure trove of one shots in the series "Altean Bedtime Stories" which I’m collecting prompts for, so if you want to throw me a pairing, a title or a prompt – in the comment section – I would GREATLY appreciate it!!!  
> Also, prompts aren’t restricted to Voltron. If there’s anything you want me to have a go at, throw the idea my way and I shall try not to butcher it!
> 
> Also also, me and my friends have a discord server. It's new, so it's still small, but it's for so many fandoms, and it's a place for chats, promoting work/art, searching for advice and discussing head canons/fan theories and so much more.   
> It's where I've posted some art and I discuss possible future stories too, so if you just want behind-the-scenes, there's that, and also I'm hoping to get something in place that will let you guys vote for what kind of story you want next.   
> I'd be thrilled if you guys came to say hi!   
> ["Welcome To The Grand Kingdom Of Fandomania"](https://discord.gg/Y4Wk3EF)
> 
> Much love xxx


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